


Don't You Dare Look Back, Just Keep Your Eyes On Me

by LeighKelly



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Closeted Character, F/F, Opposites Attract, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighKelly/pseuds/LeighKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1983, while on a blind date in a club, reserved bank manager Santana Lopez can't tear her eyes away from the beautiful blonde dancer who seems to feel the same way. All it takes is one dance to rock the entire world as both of them know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shut Up and Dance With Me

_**New York, New York: October, 1983** _

As the music pumps through tinny speakers, and the strobe lights above her head flash, Santana Lopez sits at a high-top table, raising and lowering her second Cosmopolitan from her lips. The girl sitting across from her, her cousin’s friend, in town, only for the weekend, flips her blue hair as she talks about her band, a Madonna cover band, Santana thinks she said—though she refrains from offering her opinion on why one shouldn’t exclusively play covers of an artist who’s had exactly four singles to date, and as catchy as she may find  _Lucky Star,_ who’s to say she won’t be just another flash in the pan, effectively killing the band this girl seems completely obsessed with. And truth be told, even  _if_ she’d decided to do that, Santana has scarcely been able to get a word in edgewise, so she wouldn’t have the opportunity.

When Santana finishes her Cosmo, her date is quick to her feet to order her another. Santana gives credit where credit is due, and that she can absolutely give the girl credit for, and it’s something that’ll probably bring them both back to the Hotel Chelsea tonight, despite her complete lack of conversational skills. Santana’s not dead, after all, and doing her cousin Carlos a favor and bringing his friend out for the evening, well, that doesn’t mean Santana will break from what she does every Saturday, despite the fact that she thinks maybe, just  _maybe_ the girl is a little strange, choosing a place to stay, solely for it’s Sid and Nancy connection. But Santana digresses, even in her mind. Saturdays are about unwinding for Santana. Monday through Friday, she slides into a suit and heels that click against the tile floor of her office at Chemical Bank, asserting her dominance over her underlings, but Saturdays, even on the weekends where she lacks the courage to get on stage at Rose’s Turn and sing her heart out, are all for letting her hair down, both literally, and metaphorically. Santana doesn’t date, that’s a rule for her, too messy, too stressful, and she gets enough of that in her day job, but that certainly doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the company of women, and enjoy that, she does.

Her date returns with her drink, smiling when Santana nods, graciously, as the girl lets her eyes wander down to the  _v_ in her yellow dress. Santana smirks a little, quirking an eyebrow, and takes a sip of her drink. She looks bangin’ in her dress, and Santana relishes the appreciation of her body, before turning her attention, wistfully, to the dance floor. Her date, she doesn’t like to dance. She’d told Santana as much, when Donna Summer came on an hour earlier, and she’d declined the offer to dance. Santana’s fingers drum on the table, only half paying attention to the story being told to her, as she watches, fairly envious, as a crowd of people dance to  _Billie Jean._ Beneath the table, Santana’s sneakered foot taps along to the music, and then, as her eyes meet those of one dancer who stands out among the rest, her breath catches in her throat.

The dancer is gorgeous. Her blonde ponytail whips around as she mouths—or sings, perhaps, Santana can’t be sure, from her vantage point— _told my baby we’d danced ’til three, then she looked at me._ Though the smiley face that emblazons the dancer’s white t-shirt would typically be off-putting to her, Santana is mesmerized, and she’s not the only one. The crowd seems to part, and even over the music, the whooping of women and men alike spurs the girl on. When she’s finished, the music releasing her from it’s hold, the girl looks up, and catching Santana’s eye, she grins, all of her teeth making an appearance.

It continues like that for the rest of the night. Santana’s stuck with her date, since she’d promised Carlos that she’d hang with her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t split her attention with the dancer girl, who hangs out with an equally good Asian dancer—though, Santana’s entirely uninterested in  _him—_ and a guy who pops wheelies in his wheelchair. While the girl across from her continues to talk, accepting Santana’s monosyllabic answers as an invitation to continue, she assesses the dancer and her friends. It’s clear she’s touchy, as dancers usually are, Santana would know, absolutely, from many a wild night with one, but this girl seems to be particularly so. She drapes herself over the guy in the wheelchair, she holds hands with the Asian—though the two men are a couple, it seems— she strokes the arms of people who surround her, and Santana wishes, wishes that should could be out there with her too.

But her date still talks, about the struggles of finding a guitarist now, Santana thinks. She’s barely listening by this point. Dancer girl, whose friends have left together, is now on the floor, doing the worm to  _Another One Bites the Dust._ As her ass, clad in hot pink pants, bobs up and down on the floor, Santana feels her throat go dry. She can’t believe, really, that the girl she’s with us entirely oblivious. The next time she sees Carlos, she’ll need to remind him that simply being interested in women doesn’t give them a lot in common,  _especially_ when she can’t appreciate the incredible show right before her eyes. Slurping the rest of her fourth martini, Santana stands up and excuses herself to the bathroom. It’s getting late, the club will close in a half-an-hour, and warm, not just from the liquor, she splashes her face in the sink. She shimmies down the corridor, interested in getting back to watch, when she feels a soft hand on her bicep.

When Santana spins around, there she is, the dancer she’s been watching all night. Up close, she’s even more striking, blue eyes, boring into her, appraising and appreciating every inch of her.  She’s stunning, really, taller than Santana, and all muscle, with this face that seems to bubble with emotion. As Santana’s eyes widen a little, the dancer bites back a smirk, knowing  _exactly_ the effect she’s having on the girl she looks down at.

“I saw you watching me.” She tells her, twisting the long ponytail in her fingers. “Looks like you liked what you saw.”

“I—I’m here with someone.” Santana stammers, alcohol and a pretty woman making her tongue heavy.

“And you looked like you were having a  _totally_ good time.” The girl rolls her eyes in response. “Just come dance with me, we both know you want to.”

At her cockiness, Santana has to resist the urge to pinch her thighs together. She’s seen women before, exuding confidence on the dance floor, and it not translating outside of that, but this certainly isn’t the case here. This girl knows what she wants, she knows that out of all the other women in the room, she wants  _Santana._ Entirely forgetting about her date, about her cousin Carlos, about anything but this bombshell trailing her fingers down her arm, and eventually taking her hand, Santana allows herself to be led to the dance floor, making her best effort to keep up with her partner as  _Sweet Dreams_ fills the room.  _Everybody’s looking for something_ thrumming, thrumming through her veins. What she didn’t even know she was looking for, apparently right in front of her.

She’s breathless, when the song is over, but she doesn’t stop dancing, not with this gorgeous, nameless woman tracing her curves with lithe fingers, not with deep blue eyes, never leaving her, not with music and this intoxicating scent invading her senses, Pert and Raffinee, but something else, something carnal, something that makes her head spin. Santana doesn’t stop, not until the lights go on, not until the brightness reminds her that she’d totally blown off her cousin’s friend for a woman whose name she doesn’t know—and she doesn’t regret it, not in the slightest. She looks around, back to the table she’d left, but it’s empty, it’s empty, and before another thought crosses her mind, the fingers of the mysterious dancer are on her neck, redirecting her attention. Again, when fingers slip through hers, Santana follows the woman from the bar and out to the sidewalk, no questions asked. Drunk club-goers mill about, but all of the alcohol that Santana consumed throughout the night seems to have left her system as soon as they step into the crisp fall air.

“Wanna go somewhere with me?” The woman asks, looking at her, looking  _into_ her.

“I don’t even know your name.” Santana says, though she knows she’ll go, she knows that she’ll go anywhere with this woman, like she’s  _compelled,_ somehow.

“Brittany. It’s Brittany. And what’s yours, babe?”

“Santana.” She croaks, the word  _babe_ bringing the same dryness to her throat that this woman, _Brittany’s,_ dancing had. Like she’s possessing her, almost, that thought, weakening her knees. “Where are you going?”

“To get something to eat, probably. I’m half-starved. You in?”

“It’s three in the morning, where’re you even gonna go?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.” Brittany stops in front of a Katana and grabs the leather jacket strewn over the handlebars. “Put this on, you’re gonna freeze your ass off if you’re coming with.”

“Brittany, you can’t just steal someone’s jacket.” Santana’s brow furrows, but Brittany just laughs at her, pulling a key out of her bra.

“Whose bike do you think this is? It’s your call, but if you want to come, get that tight little ass on the back and let’s book.”

“Holy shit.” Santana sucks in a breath, Brittany’s attractiveness dialing up about a hundred notches when she effortlessly hops on a motorcycle. After slipping into Brittany’s jacket, she catches the helmet that’s tossed her way, and once it’s secured, flattening out her hair, she climbs up behind Brittany and wraps both arms around her waist.

Santana can’t believe she’s doing this, really. Sure, she’s no stranger to going home with women, she’d been considering going home with her terrible date not two hours ago, after all, but this is something completely new, and not just being on the back of a motorcycle, tight dress creeping up her thighs, as she feels the strung back muscles of a gorgeous woman tense against her front. But no, leaving a bar to go share a meal with a woman, that’s far more frightening to her than Brittany speeding down Houston Street, taking full advantage of the stillness of the late night. It’s frightening, but it sends a chill of exhilaration straight through Santana’s veins, and even clad in Brittany’s tight leather jacket, she leans her body further into her driver, seeking something, though she’s not quite sure what.

They’re uptown, Santana realizes, when Brittany hops off the bike, offering Santana a hand off, then kicking down its stand. It’s far further west than Santana would usually go, her small studio on the Upper East Side safely tucked away from the grittiness that seems to pervade the rest of the city. They stand beneath the long abandoned elevated train line, graffiti working its way up every metal support, continuing to the beams over their heads, and the smell of the Hudson River creeping into her nostrils. Looking around warily, at the unfamiliar place, Santana startles a bit, when Brittany rests a hand on her lower back, but somehow, in the early morning hour, she’s quick to relax into the touch, she’s quick to allow this woman that she’s shared a mere five sentences with to usher her into a grody looking diner, all the way to a booth in the back corner. Santana looks around, taking in the sound of the bells as they enter, in the faded leather booths, in the old man by the door, sipping a cup of coffee, the only other person in the place, it seems, besides the waitress who slips through a swinging door, taking orders for their own coffee.

“Thanks for grabbing a bite with me.” Brittany smiles at Santana, who just shrugs. “I’m always starved after dancing like that all night.”

“You’re good, like, totally good. The whole place was staring at you.”

“Thanks. Didn’t really notice, I guess I was too busy staring back at you.”

“Is that a line?” Santana tilts her head, but she can’t help the genuine smile that sneaks it’s way onto her mouth. She’s still in Brittany’s jacket, and though she briefly considers giving it back, she’s throughly enjoying the warmth of it, and the vague scent of it, that same  _Brittany_ scent she’d inhaled in the club, and then more, the entire time she had her face practically buried into the back of her neck.

“Is it working?”

“Well, I came with you here, didn’t I? Seems like you don’t really need lines.”

“Truth.” Brittany laughs, and Santana, tired from the night, from the alcohol, from thinking too hard on their way over, rests her head on her hand, watching the way Brittany’s eyelashes flutter as she speaks. “Looks like you could really use that coffee. Not used to running all night?”

“Usually in a bed by this point in the night.” Santana tells her honestly, and Brittany quirks an eyebrow. “What? Need something to relieve the pressure of my job, so I like alcohol and ladies, sue me.”

“No ones judging but you, babe. So what is it you do, big shot?”

“I’m the branch manager at the Chemical on Pine.”

“No fake? You really  _are_ a big shot! That’s a big deal for anyone, but  _especially_ a woman.”

"It’s whatever.” She shrugs, sort of blanching at the unfortunate yuppification of her former self that she so despises. “Pays the bills, I wanted to be a singer, but couldn’t break into the biz.”

“I hear you on that. I’m a chorus girl so…”

“No fricking way! Are you working right now?”

“Right  _now_ I’m sitting here waiting for coffee with you.” Brittany teases. “But yeah, I’m in that new Rachel Berry musical. Townsperson number four. And yes, the rumors are true. This is my fourth show, and she’s the biggest diva I’ve ever worked with. Someone got fired last week because they moved one of her gold stars. No one’s allowed to have fun, like,  _ever._ She’s totally lame.”

“Good to know. That impressive though, I think  _you’re_ the big shot. Also explains those outrageous dance moves,”

“Well, I dance like that, just like you’ve got your  _alcohol and ladies._ I can’t exactly get down how I want on stage, so I get some relief from doing the same thing over and over again by dancing on my own.”

“So no alcohol or ladies for you?” Santana asks, taking a long sip of black coffee from her cup, when the waitress drops it off.

“Alcohol bloats me, and that’s the last thing I need when I’ve gotta zip my costume.”

“Playing coy on the other, cute. I’m sure you just tap girls on the shoulder all the time and they follow you right onto the dance floor.”

“I usually don’t leave the floor, actually.  _You_ were a special case.”

“Oh was I?” Santana twirls her hair, leaning over a little to give Brittany a better view.

“You were. You just looked so miserable not dancing that I couldn’t help myself. I have to say though, your date had some bitchin’ hair.”

“Want her number? She’s from San Fran, but if you feel like calling long distance, maybe next time she’s in town, she can tell you all about her band. They cover Madonna and only Madonna.”

“Madonna like  _Holiday_ Madonna? Doesn’t she have like five songs?”

“Not even, please. Worst date ever, but I was doing my cousin a favor. They went to Berkeley together, and she was in town. He thought we’d have something in common. All we had in common is that we both like girl’s asses, and even that’s questionable, since she didn’t even look at  _you_ on the dance floor.”

“Are you saying you like my ass, Santana.” Brittany winks, and Santana, despite her bravado, feels her cheeks flush.

“I mean, have you seen yourself?”

“Duh. And you’ve got a pretty fine one yourself. I’m glad Violet Beauregard bored you.”

“Violet Beauregard? Like from  _Willy Wonka?”_

“The one and only, that was the first movie I ever saw in the theater. But yeah, good news about her bring lame. Nice  _I_ get to be the one who takes you home.”

“Oh, so you’re taking me home then?”

“Well unless you’re walking.”

“You mean  _actually_ taking me home?”

“What do you think? I might be on a dancer’s salary, but I always buy someone dinner before u take them home like  _that_ , and this crappy coffee and overcooked eggs doesn’t count. And also, no thanks to that number. I’m not sure she’d want to go out with me anyway, I kind of stole her date, didn’t I? Besides, I think I’d much rather have  _yours_ , then I can call you about that dinner.”

“You’re pretty smooth, aren’t you?”

“We’ll see if it works.” She presses her tongue between her teeth, sliding a napkin and a crayon from the cup that sits by the ketchup across the table to Santana. “If it does, I guess so.”

Santana laughs at Brittany, purposefully holding off on writing down her number. Not because she won’t, she actually finds herself hoping that Brittany actually  _will_ call. It’s rare that a girl gets her like that. She’s usually achingly serious, and mostly intolerant of other humans, but there’s just something about this woman. The way she combines the sexiness she exudes, what with the cockiness and the leather jacket and the bike, with what can only be described as cute—her smiley face shirt, the way she talks about her fat cat and the escapades she has with her  _four_ roommates, the two men from the club included, it seems—it’s unreal. The eggs are as overcooked as Brittany had warned Santana about, but they don’t bother her. Not when blue eyes are dancing, and she finds herself having far more fun than she’d ever expected to have when a warm hand brushed her arm in that dingy bathroom corridor.

The sun is just on the brink of rising when they finally leave the restaurant, and when they leave the diner, it’s much cooler than it was just an hour earlier. Santana hugs Brittany’s jacket to herself as goosebumps rise on her bare thighs, and Brittany just smiles. She seems unaffected by the cold, even in just her t-shirt, but Santana takes a breath to steel herself from the bite of the air and makes to give back her jacket. Brittany simply shakes her head, squeezing Santana’s forearm, and hops on her bike, waiting for Santana to put the helmet on and follow suit. This time, she presses further into Brittany’s back, resting her chin on a tight shoulder, noticing the wingtips of a small bird that peek out from beneath the white t-shirt, inked into her skin. Santana sucks in another breath of Brittany’s scent, and something about it just calms her, unwinds further the tight coil that is her very being.

It’s strange for Santana, the twisting in her lower belly when Brittany turns off Park, and glides onto morning-quiet Eighty-Third street. Many a Sunday morning, she’s crept home at this time, head held high, even with smudged makeup and rumpled clothes, but she’s always alone, and she’s always content to be. She carries on her affairs outside of her home, never letting any of the women she’d seen see any of her life beyond the little they’d gleaned in a few short hours together. Even Santana’s closest friends, they rarely make it behind the white marble face of the townhouse she lives in, it’s an oasis for her, away from the world. But yet, here Brittany is, pulling up in front of Santana’s home, and here Santana is, low ache thrumming through her body at the thought of saying good night. She wonders, vaguely, if it’s because she hasn’t slept with her that changes things, but she immediately knows that’s not the case. The sparks she’d felt when Brittany had first touched her arm, they’ve grown stronger now. They seem to tingle sharply all throughout Santana’s body, they seem to be telling her something, something she’s actually listening to.

“Thanks for the ride.” Santana gets off the bike as smoothly as she possibly can, feeling the rush of cool air against her front, with the absence of Brittany’s body heat. “And for breakfast too.”

“No sweat. Thanks for having it with me.” Brittany watches as Santana slips out of her jacket, folding it over her arm, before offering it up. Slowly, Brittany takes it, her eyes on Santana’s face, drifting down to her lips. Santana takes a step closer, feeling the gaze on her, and she doesn’t hesitate, before she leans in, leaving only an inch of space between her face and Brittany’s.

“I had a really good time.” She breathes. “Maybe I’ll even give you that napkin before I go inside.”

“I sure hope you do.” Brittany runs her tongue over her lower lip, and Santana can almost feel the way she swallows. Not wasting another moment, Santana takes a deep breath of all that Brittany is, and finally leans in, catching her lips. It doesn’t last long, they’re on a public street, after all, and even in the early morning hours, it’s probably not the best idea. When Santana pulls back, those blue eyes searching her face, she’s breathless. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Santana laughs nervously, before she reaches down the front of her dress, pulling out the napkin she’d placed there, neat red numbers written across it. She trails her fingers down Brittany’s arm and presses the folded napkin into her hand. Santana Lopez doesn’t leave bars to go to diners in the middle of the night. Santana Lopez doesn’t look into girls eyes while she slips phone numbers into their open palms. Santana Lopez doesn’t hope that said girls call. And yet, here she is. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah. Yeah you most definitely will.”


	2. And When She Wakes Up and Makes Up Her Mind

When she returns home, Brittany sleeps the morning away. It’s Lauren who wakes her up, coming home from an early shift and banging a heavy fist on the door of the bedroom they share with Tina. Brittany had locked it, but Lauren threatens to break it down if she doesn’t let her in. Normally, Brittany would grumble getting up, grumble at not having a few hours of privacy, when she thought everyone else would be out of the apartment, but she doesn’t, not today. Not after meeting Santana.

Before work, Brittany still has two hours to kill. She looks at the phone for awhile, considering calling Santana. It’s too soon though, she thinks. She’d just gotten home six hours ago, and something about Santana tells Brittany that she doesn’t want to come on too strong. So she grabs her Walkman and she goes to the park instead. Tompkins Square Park is gross. There are rats, there’s broken glass, there’s a several homeless people who live there, but Brittany loves it. She loves this city, in all its grittiness, it’s the reason she came here after all—well, that and Broadway, she definitely couldn’t have danced like this back home in Mesa, Arizona—and she doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of every moment of it.

  
She goes to the park dressed for work. A leotard and tights, her leg warmers, and a windbreaker over them. The fall is coming on hard, and she won’t be able to go out like this for much longer—and Artie and Mike tell her that she shouldn’t go out like this at all—but she likes to warm up before she gets there. She likes to be one step ahead of everyone else. She figures it’s the only way she’ll ever be able to get ahead, the only way she’ll ever be more than just a chorus girl in a show where her job is on the line every time she opens her mouth.

  
Brittany talks to Bud for awhile. He’d been in Vietnam, and Brittany always buys him coffee. She may not have much, but she knows that she’s got a lot more than him. She buys him coffee, and in return, Bud always watches out for her. As much as her friends worry, Brittany always feels safe in the park. He tells her to break a leg when she leaves, and she tosses him one of the granola bars in her dance bag. She hops on her bike, and she waves goodbye to him, telling him she’ll see him tomorrow. He’s good to her, and she wishes there was more she could do to help him.

  
When Brittany gets to work, Sugar is waiting for her. She’s always even more likely than Brittany to be subjected to Rachel Berry’s wrath, but they stick together. They stretch on the black floor backstage, they keep away from the other dancers, from the drama, from all the cutthroat cattiness. Brittany doesn’t tell her about Santana. She knows they both talk a lot of crap about the yuppies, the ones who brush past them on the street while they’re outside sharing a cigarette, the ones who look right through them. But Santana is different, Brittany thinks. Santana looked at her, Santana gave her a phone number—hopefully a real one, though Brittany doesn’t really doubt—and Santana didn’t seem like she thought Brittany was invisible. 

  
Brittany is bone tired when she gets in that night. Lauren is snoring on the bunk below her, but Brittany barely hears it. She climbs the rungs of the ladder to her bed, sticks her headphones back in her ears, and she passes out. While she sleeps, she dreams of Santana. Cheesy as it is, something about this girl, she just can’t shake. This girl, who looks like she’s the opposite of everything Brittany goes for, she’s just stuck underneath her skin, and it’s making her crazy.

  
Monday morning, Brittany gets up. She seriously considers depositing her pay for the week at the branch on Pine Street, before she decides that’s wholly insane. She has Santana’s number, she could just call her and set up a date, but for all the false bravado she’d put on at the diner, for all the confidence her motorcycle and her leather jacket and her smooth dance moves exude, she’s actually a complete nervous wreck, and certain that she’ll trip over her words the moment she picks up the phone to dial that gorgeous girl.

  
So she stews in it for half the day. She knows Santana is at work anyway—clearly, their schedules don’t exactly match up—she knows that by the time Santana is home to call her back, she’ll have already left for the evening show. But still. Tuesdays are dark. She has the day off, and though she isn’t giving Santana much notice at all, she’d really, really like to have dinner with her, or else they’ll have to wait and entire week, or hope they run into each other in the club Saturday night, when Brittany heads there after the show, and truth be told, Brittany isn’t sure that she can possibly wait that long.

  
Tina makes fun of her. Lauren makes fun of her. Mike and Artie are slightly more sympathetic, but their voices are mostly drowned out over Lauren’s shouts to stop being a fricking dickweed and call the girl already, because they’re tired of hearing her spazzing. At two-o'clock, she finally does. Mike manages to herd Lauren out of the apartment, since Artie and Tina have gone to work, and Brittany gives him a thumbs up, as she grabs the phone from the cradle and carefully dials the numbers printed in neat red on the napkin she may or may not have stashed in her bra for the better part of the past two days. She knows Santana isn’t going to answer, it’s not, like, Columbus Day or anything, she thinks that’s next week, but still, Brittany twirls the coiled cord around her finger, anxiously awaiting the clicking noise that indicates the answering machine has picked up.

  
“Hello, you have reached the number of Santana Lopez.” Santana’s voice is clipped, professional, not at all like the honey sweet Brittany had heard in their early morning together. “Leave a message, and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience.”

  
The line beeps and Brittany takes another breath. In all the thinking she’d done about making this phone call, even knowing ahead of time that she would almost certainly get the answering machine, Brittany hadn’t actually considered what she was going to say. She’s never had this problem before, not with women, not with men. She doesn’t get nervous, but here she is, struggling not to sound like a total airhead.

  
“Hey, Santana, it’s Brittany, you know, from the other night, or, morning, whatever. I’m off tomorrow, and I know it’s kinda last minute, but I was hoping we could grab that dinner. I dunno when you’re gonna be able to catch, ‘cuz is like 2:15 and I’m going to head to work in a few. But tomorrow I’ll just be vegging here all day, if you want to call then, or, like leave me a message or something telling me if you’re up for dinner. Don’t leave one with Tina though, she always forgets to tell me. Sorry, this is long and weird, I’ll talk to you soon, I hope.”

  
Slowly leaving her number, and deciding against repeating it, Brittany hangs up the phone and slams her hand against her head. She hates leaving messages, she trips over her thoughts when she does, and she hopes anything she said was coherent, especially her phone number. Figuring she really can’t dwell on it or she’ll be late for work, she grabs her bag and makes a mental note to ask Mike to let his brother know that she might have someone in for dinner tomorrow night. Robbie Chang owns a restaurant on Hester Street, and though Mike’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he brought his “friend” Artie home for Thanksgiving five years ago and they’d caught them exchanging a quick kiss on the fire escape, their younger son still keeps on contact with him. He’s also very good to all of Mike’s starving artist friends, something Brittany greatly appreciates whenever she has a date and wants to take them out for more than just ten for a dollar dumplings or a hot dog.

  
Work drags. Rachel is on one of her rampages before half of the dancers even arrive to begin warming up, and Brittany’s tongue is bleeding when the curtain goes up. She has trouble starting her bike when she goes to head home, and when she finally gets it going, she pulls her jacket tight around her, the temperature having dropped a lot since she left for work. When she gets back to the apartment, everyone is away. Mike and Artie are draped across the couch, while Tina and Lauren are at the table, hundreds of bedazzler brads littering the wood surface. Brittany’s definitely done her fair share of it, but tonight she’s not in the mood. She’s just ready for bed.

  
“Bar chick called.” Lauren doesn’t look up from the vest she’d picked up at the thrift shop last week. 

  
“She did?” Brittany stops halfway to the bedroom and whips her head around. 

  
“Oh yes she did, and you can tell she’s a total richie just on the phone. Brittany Pierce, dating a yuppie, never thought I’d see the day.”

  
“Okay, Zizes.” She rolls her eyes. “Number one, I don’t care whether she has money or not. And number two, we’re not dating yet.”

  
“ _Uptown girl, you know you can’t afford to buy her pearls._ ” Lauren starts, and Artie, always looking for three opportunity to use his pipes, chimes immediately in. “ _But maybe someday when your ship comes in, she can see what kind of girl you…is?_ ”

  
“Bite me." 

  
"Fine, then I guess you don’t want her office number.” Lauren waves the piece of paper in front of her, and Brittany snatches it right out of her hands. 

  
“What did she say, Lauren? Or I swear, the next time that herby Mohawk guy calls, I’ll tell him you’re dead.”

  
“Whoa, take a chill pill, Pierce. She said to call her in the morning, that’s it.”

  
“For real that’s it?”

  
“Yeah, for real that’s it. I don’t have conversations with your girlfriend. I wanted to free up the line as fast as possible.”

  
“Okay, fine. Mike, if she says yes…”

  
“You’re taking her to Changs?” He completes her thought. “I’ll call Robbie in the morning.”

  
“Thanks! You’re the best!” She throws him a kiss and turns back. “Night, homefries. I’m taking a shower and hitting the sack.”

  
The next morning, Brittany is the first one awake. She creeps out of the bedroom, and she pours herself a bowl of cereal. The clock on the stove reads 9:05, and she doesn’t want to call immediately after Santana gets into the office. So she eats her cereal, she makes coffee, she has another bowl, and she watches the numbers creep slowly forward. She washes her dish, she pours another cup of coffee, and finally, it’s 9:37, and 9:37 seems like a completely reasonable time to call Santana. Sitting back on the couch, Brittany dials another set of numbers, making a mental note to write it in her book below the other (and maybe, maybe beneath Santana’s name with a tiny heart next to it).

  
“Chemical Bank, you’ve reached the desk of Terri Schuester." 

  
"Oh, I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong number.” Brittany stutters a little. “I was looking for Santana Lopez.”

  
“Honey, haven’t you ever heard of an assistant? You think Miss Lopez answers her own phone?” The woman laughs, fake, Brittany thinks, and she pops her gum. “That’d make my job way too easy. Who’d you say was calling?”  
“Brittany, Brittany Pierce.”

  
“Okay, let me find out if she’s in a meeting, or if she wants me to lie and tell you she’s in a meeting.”

  
“Uh, okay, sure.”

  
Terrible hold music plays for about thirty seconds, until Brittany hears someone pick up the phone, and then possibly drop it on the floor, before regaining a hold of it.

  
“Hello.” Santana’s voice is breathy, and so, so incredibly sexy, even through a phone line. “Santana Lopez speaking.”

  
“Good morning, Santana Lopez.” Brittany smiles to herself, feeling her smoothness return now that she’s not dealing with machines or assistants, but just Santana herself. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  
“Just, bank stuff. I could take a few minutes away, my employees might send you a thank you card for allowing them to escape my wrath.”

  
“Bad morning?”

  
“The worst, actually. But—” she can almost see Santana waving it away. “Not worrying about it now. I’m glad you called yesterday.”

  
“And I’m glad you called back. So, Lauren said you didn’t answer my question or anything?”

  
“Lauren is terrifying. She barely let me give her my number before she hung up on me. I have better phone calls with my mother.”

  
“I’m sorry.” Brittany wrinkles her nose and narrows her eyes toward the bedroom door. “Although, I’d rather you talk to me than her anyway.”

  
“Me too. And yes, I’ll have dinner with you tonight. I won’t be out of here until six…”

  
“How about I pick you up then?”

  
“On your bike?”

  
“No, not on my bike.” Brittany laughs, hearing Santana’s ring through the other end of the phone. “Although you’d like that, wouldn’t you? The wind whipping through that sexy power suit I’m sure you’re wearing.”

  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  
“I would, yes.” She ignores the fact that the question is rhetorical, then softens her voice a little. “It’s okay that I pick you up at work?”

  
“It’s fine.” Brittany thinks she can hear her sigh a little, and she totally gets it. “You know…”

  
“I know.”

  
“I’ll see you at six then?”

  
“I’ll see you at six.”

  
The day can’t go fast enough for Brittany. She does her usual day off routine, grocery shopping, laundry, messing around in the park for awhile, and finds its only 2:45 when she’s done. She groans at how slow time moves, then pops in one of Tina’s Jane Fonda workout tapes and does the regiment with ease, wishing someone else was home to do something with her. An hour before she needs to leave, she finally starts getting ready, teasing her hair, putting on makeup, and finally deciding on a tight green dress, not wanting Santana to feel over dressed if she wore jeans instead. 

  
She drops her bike off outside of Changs, in case she needs it later, and takes the J train to Wall Street, avoiding the leering glares of its requisite creepers. She could have walked, really, but in all her wasting time, she’d actually run out of it. It’s 5:50, when she leans against the wall beside the bank, and she tries to pretend that she’s not watching every single person who walks out the door, in hopes that it’s Santana, early.

  
“Hey.” She finally hears the voice she’s been waiting for and she snaps her head up. Brittany’s eyes widen, just a little, as they run over Santana, that delicious black pant suit and fitted blazer even sexier than Brittany had expected. When she meets Santana’s eyes, the woman has a wry look on her face, and Brittany chokes out a laugh. “Did I keep you waiting long?”

  
“Nope, ready to go?”

  
“Totally. Where are we going?”

  
“Chinatown, you like dim sum?”

  
“Can’t say I’ve had it, honestly.”

  
“Well then, babe,” Brittany grins wide, eyes full of excitement. “You’re in for a real treat.”

  
Robbie Chang’s restaurant is bustling, it always is. Save for a few yuppies in their business suits looking to attract foreign investors—looking significantly less attractive than Santana, Brittany decides—the clientele is mostly Asian, and over the din of silverware and dishes clinking, it’s mostly Chinese that can be heard. When Robbie sees Brittany, he stops what he’s doing and rushes over, hugging her, before quickly escorting the two women to a semi-private booth in the back. As Santana settles in, unbuttoning her blazer and revealing the crisp pale peach button-up beneath it, Brittany watches, not leering, really, just appreciating. When the waitress comes over with a pot of tea, Brittany nods in appreciation and offers a  _xièxie_  to her.

  
“You speak Chinese?” Santana sounds surprised.

  
“Nope, that’s pretty much the extent of it. It’s fun coming here with Mike though, he orders things in Chinese and I’m totally surprised.”

  
“That sounds…sort of terrifying." 

  
"Nah, he avoids the chicken feet salad and like, intestine-y stuff for me.”

  
“You’re really selling the place, aren’t you?” Santana quirks an eyebrow, but Brittany can see the smile that curls at the corners of her mouth.

  
“It’s good, I promise.” Brittany lets her pinky finger brush the side of Santana’s hand, and though she jumps a little at first, she settles and twists her own pinky with Brittany’s.

  
“Sorry…”

  
“No, no, I totally get it. Being in the club or in the diner in the middle of the night is totally different.” She shrugs. “But Robbie saves this table for a reason, he’s not like Mike’s parents.”

  
“I’m guessing they’re not cool with him and Artie?”

  
“Not cool is a serious understatement.”

  
“Mine…pretend they don’t know.” Santana begins, and it surprises Brittany that this seemingly reserved woman is opening up to her right away. “I mean, I guess we all just pretend. My mother stopped asking me when I’m going to get married, stopped trying to hook me up with the 'nice Puerto Rican boy from the grocery store’” She crooks her fingers in the air and rolls her eyes. “And I pretty much just have my obligatory phone calls with her once a week, and go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  
“I’m sorry.”

  
“No, no, it’s fine, sorry, I’m totally dragging our date down.”

  
“You’re not, I wouldn’t have asked you out if I didn’t want to know about you. Did your day get any better at work?”

  
“It did.” She smiles softly, squeezing Brittany’s pinky a little as she says it. “It’s still the bank, but…”

  
“You don’t love your job, huh?”

  
“I love having money to buy what I want and not having to follow my parents rules to access a trust fund I don’t want.”

  
“Okay.” Brittany doesn’t press the issue further, she just looks at Santana, and she pours tea for both of them. “I can totally understand that.”

  
“What about you, Brittany? Do you love what you do?”

  
“I love dancing. I don’t love this Rachel Berry shitshow, but I love that I get to get on stage every night and do the thing that makes me the happiest.”

  
“I’d really like to see it.” Santana smiles softly. “Is that weird? I mean, I know we just met, but you sound so amped when you talk about it…”

  
“Nah, I don’t think so. Sorry, we don’t get like, family and friends discounts or anything.”

  
“You’re really cute.” She presses her tongue between her teeth, and Brittany blushes at her words. “And knowing I was having dinner with you definitely contributed to my afternoon being better.”

  
“Well then, I better not disappoint. So tell me, besides chicken feet, is there anything you won’t eat?”

  
The conversation flows easily, and Brittany lets Robbie choose what to bring them. As Santana expresses her approval of her first dim sum experience, Brittany’s chest feels tight with excitement. The date is going well, so well, despite Brittany’s nervous jitters and Santana’s predilection for being slightly (perhaps a gross understatement) uptight. When Santana makes an effort to pay, Brittany waves her off, and she stands up, chatting with Robbie in the front of the restaurant as not to make a big deal that neither of them will actually pay—though probably, Santana has already figured that out.

  
“Can I take you home?” Brittany asks, leading Santana to the edge of the alley, where she’d left her bike. 

  
“I was going to take a cab…I don’t really do the subway at night, or, well, ever. But, you can come with me, if you wanted to go back to my place and have a glass of wine or coffee, sorry, you don’t drink.”

  
“With you, I’ll have a glass of wine.” Brittany grins, and it makes Santana smile too. She considers making a joke about working it off, but she’s unsure of Santana’s humor, particularly with sexual innuendos. “Let’s do it, babe.”

  
For the second time in three nights, Santana accepts the worn in leather jacket that Brittany hands to her, and straps the helmet beneath her chin. It’s funny, Brittany thinks, the way she considers the need for another helmet in a way she never has before. This is fine, perfect, actually, Santana in her things—particularly that jacket, watching Santana zip it up over her chest might be Brittany’s new favorite sight—but if, maybe this becomes a thing, more than just a late night breakfast and an amazing first date, then Santana needs a helmet of her own.

  
Where Santana was cautious the night after the bar, Brittany can feel the difference in her behavior now. Arms wrap around her waist, and as Santana’s chin finds a resting place on her shoulder, Brittany needs to take a moment before she kicks on the engine and lifts her feet. It’s a distraction, truly, as she zips across a Canal Street, but a welcome one, one Brittany Pierce will take any day of her life. A beautiful woman on the back of her bike, a beautiful woman who’s so much more than what Brittany had seen as first glance, she can hardly believe any of this is even happening.

  
When they arrive outside of Santana’s home, Brittany parks across the street. Her bike is out of place on the quiet Upper East Side street, but it’s safer, she figures, than most places she leaves it. She takes her helmet back from Santana, and she tucks it beneath her arm, following just a half a step behind as they make their way up the stone stairs, and Santana unlocks the heavy door. It’s a different world here, a far cry from the life she’s carved out for herself in that cramped and busy apartment, a far cry, even, from the quiet Arizona suburb she left behind to find her place on the Great White Way, but it feels right, so right, particularly when Santana cocks her head to the side, and twinkling dark eyes invite her in.

  
Brittany feels the electricity beneath her skin, the instant she enters. She feels this shift, Santana’s public self, to her most private, and she slips Brittany’s jacket from her shoulders, hanging it neatly, before finally removing her still unbuttoned blazer. In the low light of the entryway, Brittany takes in Santana, stunning, relaxed, maybe more important than anything. The tops of her breasts peek from her shirt, and Brittany swallows, trying to contain her undeniable desire for this gorgeous creature. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can figure out the words to say, she feels a thumb press against her lips, she feels Santana’s hand, warm from where it had rested on Brittany’s midsection, fall to rest on her cheek. There’s not much more Brittany wants than to kiss Santana—well, at this exact moment—to kiss her properly, in a way she couldn’t in Sunday’s early hours in the street just twenty feet from where she now stands, and she sucks in a breath, the shared space between them charged.

  
“Hey.” Santana murmurs, leaning in just enough so the very tip of her nose touches Brittany’s. Brittany can nearly taste her, she licks her lips, she inhales.

  
“Hi.” Brittany speaks back, sounding more like a low growl, tones vibrating where Santana’s hand rests. They savor the moment, close, so close, before Brittany closes the gap.

  
She could kiss Santana forever. She’d figured as much the first time their lips had touched, but this, this kiss Brittany has been waiting for, it’s completely different. It makes her head spin. It makes her body throb. Santana gives Brittany control of it. She parts her lips, and she allows Brittany to deepen it, soft tongue flicking across her lower lip, long fingers threading through dark hair. When Santana lifts her leg to wrap it around Brittany’s waist, the heel of her other shoe catches, and she stumbles a little, lucky for Brittany’s grasp on her, lucky for strong arms and quick reflexes. Brittany doesn’t stop kissing, once she’s sure she’s got a tight hold on Santana, the feeling of Santana’s thigh around her own making her dizzier, dizzier, until she thinks she might stumble too. It’s Santana who tilts her head back then, separating their lips, but barely, it’s Santana who looks at Brittany, pupils blown, dark and pull of desire, it’s Santana who makes Brittany twist and yearn inside. It’s Santana, who seems to know that if they don’t stop, even if only for a moment, they may both explode.

  
The stand for several moments, bodies pressed together, as they catch their breath. Santana’s hands tickle Brittany’s shoulder, tracing, Brittany realizes, the wings of the bird there. She’s not sure how she doesn’t without seeing, but she does. She does, and Brittany shivers, the soft touch of fingers on skin overwhelming right now, overwhelming as everything about Santana seems to be both too much and not enough all at once.

  
“How about that wine?” Santana asks, finally, her voice raspy, as she swallows away the dryness.

  
“Okay.” Brittany finds herself nodding, finds herself leaning into Santana’s touch, as she presses her hand into her lower back and leads her to the white leather sectional in her living room. She has to pinch her eyes shut, just for a moment, has to clear the vision of Santana on her back beneath her on this couch, black hair splayed out, buttons undone, chest heaving, from her mind. She’s almost entirely unsuccessful there, but still, Brittany manages to croak, “Wine is good. Wine is really good.”


	3. Only Know It's a Matter Of Time

Once Brittany is seated, Santana watches. She has to watch. She doesn’t want to watch. Blue eyes take in the room around her. They take in Santana’s too-expensive useless crap. They take in dumb crystal statues that Santana bought simply because she could. They take it all in, and Santana, she suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious. She’s had girls here before, sure, she’s had many girls here, if she’s being honest. She’s had girls here, and she’s wanted to impress them with her wealth. She’s wanted them to ooh and ahh over her purchasing power, her job at the bank, her big fancy townhouse, her lavish dates—one date, only one date, always—to see her as something special, something larger than life, something she’d struggled her whole life to feel for herself. Her money made their clothes fall off, she’d laughed about it, with her close friends, but now, now this is something different. Brittany is something different, Brittany makes her want to be more than that, to have more than what money can buy, and again, if she’s being honest, that thought terrifies Santana.

“I’ll be back with the wine.” She manages. “Make yourself at home.”

  
Santana makes her way into the kitchen. It’s big and clean—Millie, her housekeeper, comes four days a week—and Santana rarely eats at home anyway, so it stays mostly spotless—and she leans back against the counter, sucking in as much air as she possibly can. She can’t believe how nervous she is, she can’t believe how much she wants to impress Brittany Pierce, and she can’t believe that she has absolutely no idea how. Standing on her tip toes, Santana takes two glasses for white down from the glass fronted cabinet. She inspects them slowly, though she has no real reason to, it’s just something to fill time while she gets herself together. Santana doesn’t do this, she doesn’t get nervous around women, she's  _good at_  women, at least once she gets past her own anxiety, and sometimes weird first impressions. She knows how to charm them, to woo them, if only for a single night, but really, from the first time she met Brittany, she knew that she wasn’t like anyone else.

  
Opening the door to the wine fridge below her counter, Santana inspects the bottles. She never orders wine in the bar, stemmed glasses make her nervous in public, but at home, particularly when she’s alone, she considers herself a bit of a connoisseur. So she turns the bottles in the refrigerator slowly. She’s not sure which to open, she’s not sure which seems like she’s trying too hard, or which Brittany would even like. It’s ridiculous. She knows it’s ridiculous, it’s wine for God’s sake, but still, it must take her a good six minutes to pull a bottle of Chardonnay, and another two to pop the cork, cautious that she doesn’t cut herself, or let the bottle slip from her hands and shatter on the floor. She pours it into the two glasses, and she considers taking a swig of it straight from the bottle before she goes back to the living room—she’s definitely never done _that_  before—and then begins to worry whether or not she should bring out some kind of snack.

  
Santana begins rummaging through her refrigerator, hoping Millie cooked something, as she often does, though Santana rarely ends up eating it, and she happens across a container of chocolate chip cookies, just as she hears the sound of Lou Gramm’s voice floating from her turntable in the other room.  _It feels so right, so warm and true. I need to know if you feel it too._ She stops, dead in her tracks, the cookies forgotten, when she feels a presence in the room, and when she turns around, Brittany is right behind her, hips swaying, eyes smoldering.

  
“Hi.” She smiles, and Santana’s knees feel weak again. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t like…fall into the fridge or anything.”

  
“No.” Santana laughs, a real laugh. “Just picking wine, seeing if there was anything to eat, in case you were hungry…”

  
“I’m not. We just ate a  _ton_  of dim sum, but thanks. I hope you don’t mind…” Brittany gestures to the air,  _This heart of mine has been hurt before. This time I want be be sure_  "I found your choice LP collection while I was waiting, and I couldn’t help myself.“

  
"No, no, please. I’m glad you did. Foreigner, nice call.”

  
“I put  _Rumours_  away. Totally rocking album though, and I considered leaving it on, but I thought this maybe fit the mood more. I totally approve in your musical taste, Santana Lopez.”

  
Santana shivers at the way Brittany says her name. She swallows the nervous lump in her throat as Brittany moves closer to her, opening her arms so Santana can step into them. Without question, she does, and Brittany nudges the door of the refrigerator shut with her foot. Lithe arms encircle Santana’s waist, and she breathes deeply, Pert and Raffinee, and still that something else, the something she’s been trying to figure since they’d first danced in the club. But she doesn’t stop to think about it now. Instead, she brings her arms up around Brittany’s neck, pinky tapping where the little bird is, heart racing as Brittany pulls her closer.

  
In her five years living in this place, Santana has never danced in the kitchen before. She’s never had anyone to dance with, and she never thought she was missing out. But now, with Brittany’s heartbeat against her own, she feels like she has a lifetime to make up for, and with Brittany, who she’s known for only hours, really, when she totals it up, she somehow feels like she’s found someone to make that time up with. It’s a thought that would scare her, no, terrify her, in any other circumstance, but right now, as Brittany’s hand presses into her lower back, as she dips her just slightly, Santana can’t think of anything but blue eyes and the way this girl intoxicates her. _Yeah, waiting for a girl like you, to come into my life._

 _  
_Santana is breathless as the song ends, but she tries to play it cool. She slips smoothly from Brittany’s embrace, and moves to the counter, lifting the two glasses, and pressing one into Brittany’s extended hand, careful that she has the stem in her grasp. They move to the living room without a word, Santana grazing her hand over the dimmer switch to lower the lights, just a little, and knees brushing when they sit back on the sectional. Santana feels like words have escaped her, being in Brittany’s presence, it makes her whole body feel like jelly, but she smiles. She smiles, and she knows that her eyes sparkle when she looks at Brittany, she knows they sparkle as she sips her wine, and watches as Brittany does the same.

  
They talk, as they finish the bottle of wine, the music slipping into  _Girl On the Moon_. This isn’t something Santana has ever done before, sitting on her sofa talking about the bank heist in Connecticut that has her own security under all kinds of new screening, debating whether  _Risky Business_ lives up to the hype—Brittany says yes, Santana says no— and just enjoying each other’s company. When Santana takes her final sip and sets the empty glass down on the table, she’s a little tipsy, but in a good way. In that warm, light kind of way, the way that makes her stop worrying about every step she takes, the way that makes her forget to think about how how matter what she’s done to be successful in her life, she’s still failing to live up to her parents’ expectations. The way that makes all of this, right here, with Brittany, not feel like something she has to hide under the rug. 

  
There’s a lull in conversation when the wine is gone. Santana feels how Brittany watches her, eyes flitting across her face, studying her every twitch and tick. Brittany moves closer, so slowly, that if Santana wasn’t entirely focused on her, she wouldn’t notice, and gently, a warm hand falls to rest on Santana’s knee, palm just below where the hem of her skirt lands. Feeling it there, Santana sucks in a breath, and when her own hand settles on top of it, Brittany’s other cups her cheek, drawing Santana in, so their lips are scarcely a hair apart. Before she connects them, Santana takes another breath, she lets herself feel the crackling adrenaline, and then she presses into Brittany, sighing, as she parts her lips.

  
They kiss. Brittany’s hand moves from Santana’s knee, teasing at the edge of her skirt, before trailing up her side and falling to rest just beneath her right breast, thumb brushing the underside of it every so often, making Santana shiver. Santana winds her hands in Brittany’s hair, pulling her closer, closer, until Brittany swings her leg over Santana and straddles her lap, dress riding up to the top of her thighs. Santana sinks back into the cushions on the back of the couch and she keeps her eyes open, gasping at the intensity of the look in Brittany’s eyes.

  
Santana is overcome by Brittany’s everything. Her hands roaming her body, her overwhelming scent, the way her tongue curls with Santana’s own. She typically prides herself on her sexual prowess—or, at the very least, sexual competence—but now, with this gorgeous woman on top of her, fingers playing with shirt buttons, that seems to be lacking severely, and she feels like a fumbling sixteen year old. She’s hot, her skin is actually on fire, she thinks, and when Brittany gets Santana’s shirt undone, revealing her pale pink lace bra, she actually feels relief at the cool air hitting her skin. She feels relief, but it’s short lived, when Brittany’s lips trail from her mouth down the column of her neck and just to where her breasts spill over her bra. She kisses there, skin burning in her wake, eyes burning into Santana’s, and finally finding her head, Santana toys with the zipper of her dress, before slowly, slowly pulling it down.

  
“Do you want to take this to the bedroom?” Santana rasps, her fingers tracing the ridges of Brittany’s spine.

  
Brittany doesn’t answer. She continues with her openmouthed kisses on the tops of Santana’s breasts, over her bra, making Santana’s body hum, even though clothing keeps her from the full pleasure of it, it’s sight to behold. She looks into Santana’s eyes, coy smile curling on her face against sensitive skin, and she hooks her hands under Santana’s ass, lifting her up into her arms. Immediately, Santana’s ankles lock around Brittany’s waist, heels still on her feet, and she tilts Brittany’s head up so that she can kiss her once more, hard on the mouth, while she presses her body further into Brittany’s.

  
“Where’s the bedroom?” Brittany husks, running her thumb along the clasp of Santana’s bra, eager to unsnap it to grant herself better access. “You skipped the tour.”

  
“You want a tour?” Santana’s breaths are ragged, and she nips the underside of Brittany’s chin. “Second door on the left, I’ll save the rest for morning.”

  
Hoisting Santana up higher so she doesn’t drop her, Brittany wastes no time following her directions to the bedroom. Though she’d ordinarily stop and gape at the opulence of the room, she barely registers more than where the bed is, and she quickly pulls back the comforter and sets Santana down on the satin sheets. Her eyes roam over her, clad in only her skirt and bra, dark beauty, much like on the sofa, in stark contrast to the pale sheets beneath her. 

  
As Brittany shrugs her dress from her body and climbs back on top of Santana in only a black bra and barely there matching panties, Santana swallows hard and rakes her eyes over every inch of her flawless body. She’s a dancer, obviously she’s in great shape, but knowing it and being able to…appreciate it are two different things entirely. When Brittany unclasps her own bra, Santana can’t help but bring her hands up immediately, thumbs brushing pink nipples and palms savoring the weight of them. Brittany hisses at the sensation, and Santana, regaining her confidence, sits up and replaces her hands with her mouth. Slowly, she dances her fingers down Brittany’s ribcage, and hooks her thumbs into the elastic of Brittany’s panties, sliding them down her legs, leaving Brittany completely naked atop her.

  
Lost in the sensation of Santana’s tongue circling her nipple, and a strong thigh rising up to tense between her own, Brittany drops her head back and weaves her fingers through thick, wavy locks, nails scratching at her scalp. Santana can’t tear herself from Brittany’s blissed out face, and when blue eyes gaze back down at her, she presses her thigh harder, determined to make Brittany feel good. The moan that she gets in response makes her smirk into Brittany’s skin, but she’s taken by surprise when she’s pushed back on the bed, and Brittany slides her shirt down her arms and quickly rids her of her bra before she even has time to register her motions.

  
Blunt nails drag down Santana’s sides, and she lifts her hips as Brittany works her zipper, and slips her skirt down, fingers electrifying her skin. The shoes drop from Santana’s feet when Brittany presses on her knees, spreading her legs apart. She stares, mouth agape, as Brittany swipes the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, hands resting at the tops of Santana’s thigh highs. Even with panties still on, Brittany looks ready to devour her, and Santana tries unsuccessfully to wet the dryness in her throat at what’s before her. The sight of Brittany between her legs, it’s surreal. This isn’t something she normally  _does_ , it’s always felt too intimate and sort of  _invasive_ , almost, if she’s being truthful, for someone she’ll never see again, come morning to pleasure her like that. But Brittany is different. She thinks about cooking breakfast for Brittany, not giving her a twenty for her cab ride home. She thinks about a second date, not huffing as she dabs toothpaste on the side of her neck, trying to hide a hickey that she doesn’t the world to see. She thinks this could be something real, that she could  _let_  it be. When Brittany ducks her head and presses a kiss to Santana’s clothed sex, she shudders and releases a gasp, not expecting the action.

  
“Shit.” Santana hisses through her teeth, making Brittany jerk her head up and Santana’s cheeks flush when she realizes she spoke aloud. 

  
“You okay, babe?” Brittany’s voice is scratchy, as her fingers graze the elastic of Santana’s stockings.

  
“Yeah, totally.” Santana nods, really, desperately trying not to combust when Brittany moves her kisses lower, trailing them down her inner thighs, and then following the path of where she removes nylon from her toned legs.

  
It’s agonizing, the way Brittany completes his disrobing of Santana, kisses, nips, tongue, down her thighs, behind her knees, on the insides of her ankles, and then back up again. When Brittany finally removes Santana’s soaked panties, and drags her tongue over the spot of her own wetness that she’d left from grinding into the thigh of the girl beneath her, Santana writhes on the bed, _aching_  to be touched where she throbs,  _aching_  for perfect pink lips to move higher and grant her the pleasure they seem to promise. It doesn’t take long for Santana’s desire to come true. Brittany bites gently at the very top of Santana’s inner thigh, suckling the skin when the other woman releases a guttural moan, before she’s even touched her waiting center. Truly, if Brittany is this good at foreplay, Santana is afraid she might die, and when Brittany finally parts her and slips her tongue through her, Santana’s hands scrabble at empty space, unsure whether to grip the bedsheets, or wind her hands through Brittany’s hair, pulling her closer, begging her never to stop.

  
In rare form, Santana is entirely unabashed as Brittany works her mouth against her, lips encircling her throbbing clit. She cants her hips up, seeking more, and her hands, they’ve split the difference, one grasping at silk beneath her and the other, cradling the back of Brittany’s head. For as long as she’s been sleeping with women, it’s been, in great part, an outlet for her to unwind, but now, as she whimpers and moans, as she gasps, as she comes close to begging Brittany for more, to never stop the magic she’s making with her tongue, she knows it’s the first time she’s ever fully let go, the first time she’s ever let a person see her at her most raw.

  
“Fuck! Brittany!” Santana cries out, orgasm seizing her, making her body quake and her thighs bracket Brittany’s ears, trapping her between them. “Ugh! Fuck!”

  
Tears fill Santana’s eyes as she feels Brittany building her up again, before she’s even come down the first time. She’s gentler, longer laps of her tongue, and fingers, slipping in, seeking out a spot her tongue can’t reach, but still, Santana’s stomach knots and coils, her lips quiver, her hips rise in response to Brittany’s mouth. Her fingers wind tight in blonde locks this time, and her eyes, they stay open, memorizing the sight of burning blue, of the woman who feels like she’s made to pleasure her, made to make her life better in every possible way. She arches her back as she comes again, her hand releasing the sheets as she brings it to Brittany’s face, pushing her back, making her stop, before she actually dies right there in her very own bed.

  
When Santana lifts her head back up, the sight of Brittany, still naked between her legs, and propped up on her elbows, hair messed and mouth glistening might be what does her in. It has to be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, and even panting and jellied, Santana savors it, before she urges her upward, desperate, for the first time in her life, to taste herself on a woman’s lips. She jolts again, when Brittany’s nipples brush hers, and she strokes her thumb on a soft cheek, sighing in this strange contentment when Brittany’s lips come down upon hers, and she opens her mouth, inviting her in.

  
While Brittany kisses her, Santana’s hands wander the perfect body above her, exploring, worshipping. They map the swell of her ass, her defined abs, her strong legs, and finally, they dip into wet molten heat. Brittany grinds down on her, chasing a release that’s been a long time coming, and Santana is eager to please. She rolls her onto her back, pressing into her as she makes slow, tight circles, and she bites down on Brittany’s bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. Brittany’s whine thrums through Santana’s body, and when she thrusts two fingers inside of her, she feels her sex clamp down, drawing her deeper. 

  
“You’re so sexy.” Santana breathes in Brittany’s ear, flicking her tongue along the shell of it. 

  
“God, Santana! Ugh—I need—”

  
Curling her fingers inside, Santana’s thumb presses Brittany’s clit, making her shake and whimper, making Santana feel like the most powerful woman in the world, making this sex goddess writhe and whimper, her feet digging into the sheets. Santana’s name escapes her lips when she comes, and then comes again, without Santana doing much different to spur it again, waves rolling through her body, and Santana kisses her, sweaty forehead falling to rest on Brittany’s. With the last bit of energy she has, Brittany rolls, pulling Santana on top of her. The dead weight on Santana as they both take deep, gasping breaths, is comforting, somehow, where it would normally oppress her—Santana doesn’t like feeling constricted, not ever, until now, where she thinks she might prefer this feeling forever, Brittany’s heat beating against hers, Brittany’s blonde hair curtaining her vision, Brittany’s sex still throbbing where her fingers remain buried. 

  
They lay like that for a long time, not sleeping, not talking, just <I>being.</I> It surprises Santana, when Brittany finally shimmies onto her side, so not to fall asleep on top of Santana, that she’s the one who immediately cuddles in, her back pressing into Brittany’s front, her hands, seeking out Brittany’s to play with until she lets sleep come. She feels secure, she feels cared for, and it’s strange. Brittany is a stranger, mostly. They’ve gone on one and a half dates, but still, it feels more, it feels bigger, it makes Santana want the things she never lets herself want, it makes Santana ache to have this woman in her bed all the time, this woman in her  _life_  even more, and when she falls asleep, Brittany nuzzling into her neck, Brittany pressing a kiss on her bare shoulder blade, she feels content in a way she never knew existed.

* * *

In the early morning hours, long before her alarm goes off for work, Santana awakes. She’s never been much of a sleeper, she’s far too high strung, and her mind moves too fast for that, but when she feels Brittany’s arms still encircling her waist, Brittany’s bare breasts against her back, Brittany’s soft breaths in her ear, Brittany’s legs tangled with her own, Brittany’s everything, sleep warm and soft, Santana keeps her eyes closed longer than she ordinarily would, she savors that feeling. She quells her fears that this all may be fleeting, and she lies there, just for a few more moments, before she slips from her embrace, eager to make her coffee and breakfast, before she has to leave for the day.

  
Snatching her discarded blouse from the floor, Santana slides it up her arms, letting it fall, unbuttoned, against her body. She watches Brittany as she rakes her hands through her hair, tying it back in a messy bun, rather than try and tame the mess it’s become. Brittany looks beautiful there, in the soft morning light that creeps through the shaded windows. Her chest rises and falls, her hand, in Santana’s absence, grips the pillow, her lips purse, and Santana inhales sharply, turning away, before she abandons her plans and simply stares creepily at her for the remainder of her slumber.

  
After scrubbing last nights makeup from her face and brushing her teeth, Santana pads to the kitchen, the best kind of soreness radiating from between her legs through the rest of her body, She turns on the coffee pot, scooping her imported coffee into the filter and filling the carafe from the tap. Much like she’d realized last night, she keeps very little food in the house, but she opens the refrigerator again, hoping somehow that she can make breakfast out of the things that Millie gets at Zabar’s. Furrowing her brow and pulling butter, eggs, bread and milk out, Santana wonders whether Brittany likes her breakfast sweet or savory. Figuring she can possibly make them both happen, she stands on tip toes, snatching sugar and cinnamon from the cabinet above the sink. As she whisks two eggs together in a pan, adding the cinnamon and sugar, Santana hums to herself, considering deeply how much of a raise Millie Rose deserves for allowing her to fulfill her breakfast making desires.

  
She’s got two pans on the stove, one with eggs, and one with French toast, and a cup of black coffee in front of her, her humming turned to singing, when she feels the press of a bare body behind her, a sheet, maybe, between them, the nuzzle of a chin into her shoulder, the cupping of a hand beneath her shirt. Her singing falters at the contact  _Sometimes I don’t know what I will find. I only know it’s a matter of—_ but she leans back into Brittany’s embrace, biting back a moan as strong hands massage her breasts. It’s intimate and familiar, being touched like this while she cooks breakfast, it’s something she’s never experienced before, it’s something she never thought she wanted, never  _allowed_  herself to want, and yet, here she is, leaning her head back on Brittany’s bare shoulders, looking into sleepy blue eyes, smiling her good morning.

  
“This all for you?” Brittany clicks her tongue, circling her thumb over Santana’s nipple as she inspects what’s on the stove. “I actually didn’t peg you as the type that cooked. Sweet  _and_ salty. Weird.”

  
“I—” Santana presses her legs together, trying to stave off her rapidly building arousal and get herself together, while Brittany seems to  _really_  enjoy her squirming. “I just didn’t know what you liked.”

  
“To start, I  _really_ like your voice.” She hums into Santana’s ear, making her blink her eyes quickly, her heart hammering in her chest. Brittany’s hands still knead at her chest, and Santana feels like she’s on sensory overload. “Don’t stop on my account.”

  
“I—” Her words are constantly stuck in her throat around this woman, and she brings her hands up, catching Brittany’s in them and bringing them to rest on her hips, fearful that she’ll seriously come just from that, and then have to crawl under her sink and die. “Can’t sing when you’re doing that.”

  
“Hmph.” There’s a pout in Brittany’s voice as her fingers tickle her hip bones, inching lower, to where Santana is completely bare, she just can’t keep them still, and if Santana is going to go crazy, she figures it’ll be in the best possible way. “But I like those too.”

  
“They like you right back.” Santana flushes at her own admission, Brittany poking her side teasingly.

  
“You’re so cute. Really.”

  
“I can think of at least thirty people who will disagree with you on that. I’m pretty sure Terri has a list going.”

  
“They’re clearing buggin’, babe.” Her hands trail upward again, and Santana turns around, stopping her with a kiss on the mouth. “Good morning to you too.”

  
“Really good morning.” She smiles, wiping her thumb under Brittany’s eye to erase a smudge of eyeliner. “Now eggs or French toast?”

  
“We had eggs at dinner last night.” Brittany reaches over Santana and lifts her mug to her lips, taking a long sip. It’s something that would drive Santana crazy, otherwise, but with Brittany, she feels a fluttering in her chest, and a smile curls at her mouth. “But since you made them, I’ll have both.”

  
Santana begins singing again, as she finishes breakfast, feeling Brittany’s eyes on her the entire time. Wrapped in just the sheet she pulled from the bed, Brittany sits at one of Santana’s high stools, graciously accepting her own mug of coffee. When Santana sits across from her with the plates, Brittany’s toes immediately creep up her leg. She nearly spills coffee everywhere, jolting, when Brittany makes it just above her knee. She shakes her head, but the coy little smirk on Brittany’s face, even as she stills her motions, just letting her foot rest there, it’s something that Santana doesn’t think she could ever possibly tire of.

  
“I had a really awesome time last night.” Brittany tells her, her playfulness replaced with sincerity. 

  
“Me too. Thank you for dinner. You’ll have to tell Mike and his brother how much I enjoyed it.”

  
“I will.” She nods, and they fall into a comfortable quiet, only the scrape of forks on plates, the appreciative noises Brittany makes as she eats, and the occasional siren outside the window breaking the silence.

  
As much as she wishes she could take the day off of work, as much as she wishes she could fall back into bed with Brittany—never, ever has she wanted that, after a night with a woman, but then again, never  _ever_  has she fallen asleep cuddling or made one breakfast—Santana knows she has to go in. The bank won’t run itself, the house won’t pay for itself, and she can’t risk derailing the path she’s set for herself. So she invites Brittany to stay as long as she wants, to relax, to rent movies on pay-per-view, if she’s so inclined, to make herself at home, and she gets in the shower alone, knowing if Brittany comes in with her, her ability to get out of the house with me drastically impaired. She pulls on panties, on new thigh highs, she clasps her bra, adjusting her boobs in the bathroom mirror, and she tries not to think about Brittany taking all of that back off of her. 

  
She does her hair, her makeup, and as she slides her arms into a blue blouse, she smiles to herself at the bruise on her collarbone, in the perfect place for her clothing to cover it—as if a message from Brittany, I _know you’re a professional, but I want you to remember how you feel when you’re underneath me._ Once her skirt is zipped, and she smooths herself down, she goes back into the bedroom to find her matching blazer. Brittany sits on the edge of the bed, smiling, back in her green dress, hair smoothed and makeup scrubbed away from her face, holding out her heels to her.

  
“You really don’t have to leave.” Santana accepts the shoes and slides them onto her feet, gaining three inches of height. “I know it’s the crack of dawn.”  
“Not much to do here with you gone.” Brittany shrugs. “I never did get that tour.”

  
“I guess you’ll have to come back then.” She pulls the suit jacket from her closet and quickly does the buttons.

  
“Looks like it. I guess that’ll be what convinces me, the tour of your mansion.” Brittany winks, and a laugh bubbles from Santana’s throat. Brittany doesn’t say it in a judging way, she doesn’t say it with dollar signs in her eyes, she just  _says_  it.

  
“Good, then we’re on the same page.”

  
Stepping between Brittany’s legs, Santana sets her hands on her shoulders, just taking all of this in for a minute. It’s new, it’s exciting, and if she can just allow herself to take things as they come, she could really,  _really_  get used to this. Brittany’s hand squeezes her hip, pinching the hem of her jacket, and Santana stands there, not even leaning down to kiss her, just feeling incredibly comfortable as she is. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, bright orange 6:57 beaming at her, Santana knows she has to leave. She has phone calls to make, she has a routine to keep, and reluctantly, she steps back and offers Brittany a hand up.

  
“Sorry it’s such an early morning.” She tells her, eye level with Brittany, who’s still in her bare feet.

  
“Totally worth it.” One side of Brittany’s mouth lifts up. “I’ll grab a nap before work, you’re the one that’s gotta go deal with bank people.”

  
“Coffee is my best friend.” Santana leads Brittany back into the foyer, and once Brittany slips into her shoes and her jacket, she stand on her tiptoes, cupping her cheek and kissing her slow, deep, goodbye, before they go their separate ways. “I’ll call you.”

  
“Good, I’ll be waiting for it.”

  
Softly this time, Brittany kisses her again, her lips lingering just for a final moment. When the door opens, Santana blinks in the fall sunlight, and watches as Brittany hops on her bike. Santana steps to the curb, waiting for a cab to pass her, and she smiles one last time, her fingers twitching back, in response to Brittany’s small wave over her shoulder, and her heart, in some strange sort of way, twitching too.


	4. The Second Hand Unwinds

She doesn’t call. She doesn’t even call  _back._ Three days after their  _perfect_ first date, and the absolutely amazing night together, Brittany finally caves and calls Santana herself. She gets the machine, and she leaves a message. She tries to sound breezy, but really, she’s torturing herself internally. Why hasn’t she called?

 Brittany threatens Lauren. Not that she’d really be able to follow through on her threats—Lauren is much bigger than her, and Lauren was an actual, honest to God wrestler in high school—but still, she wants her to know that she  _better not be screwing with her phone calls._ Then, when Lauren swears she doesn’t care enough to mess with her phone calls, and tells her Santana really hasn’t called, she mopes around the apartment. She knows they only had one real date, but  _still._ It felt like something more than that. It felt like she really  _meant something_ to Santana.

By the second week, Mike and Artie buy her ice cream and cheap wine. They get drunk, and Brittany maybe, just a little bit, cries over it. She feels like an idiot. She’s not even the kind of girl who gets attached after sleeping with someone, but she’s also not the kind of girl who hides her emotions. So she cries a little, she eats more ice cream, and Artie suggests that she get under somebody to get over Santana. She doesn’t want to do that—get under somebody  _or_ get over Santana. But she hasn’t called, so she might not have a choice, at least on the latter.

When she’s not moping or working, dancing harder than she’s ever danced before, avoiding fights with Rachel Berry harder than she ever has before, she’s either out with Sugar, doing shots until she feels like dancing on the bar, or taking her bike over the Williamsburg Bridge and just absently driving through Brooklyn. She figures it keeps her from riding past the bank, past Santana’s house, just to make sure she’s not dead or anything. But Brittany already knows she’s not. She knows she’s still alive and she knows that she just didn’t want to call her, so she won’t be that girl.

Sixteen days pass. Brittany still can’t get Santana out of her head. Sugar offers to hire a hitman—her daddy knows people, she assures Brittany. Brittany declines, Santana has really great legs, and it would be an aesthetic shame for someone to break them. Plus, Brittany really likes Santana and stuff, so, even if she isn’t calling her back, she doesn’t want anything  _bad_ to happen to her. She appreciates the sentiment though. Sugar’s a good friend, better, actually, than Brittany had ever really realized. She doesn’t tell Brittany that she’s being dumb, sulking about a girl she’s had one date with, she just buys more tequila and whoops and hollers when Brittany rolls her body to Rick Astley.

It’s a Friday night. Brittany’s bike is acting up, so she has to take the subway to work. Some guy pinches her ass at Fourteenth Street, and it puts her in the foulest of moods. Rachel is on a special kind of warpath. Brittany bites her tongue. She needs this job, and Rachel Berry’s gigantic ego is not at all worth it. Sugar almost goes back at her, but Brittany pulls her into the dressing room, trying to just get through the night without a conflict. The show goes on, and they both are still employed, but Brittany worries. If Rachel had caught sight of Sugar’s scowl on stage, she’s done for. She’s done for, and Brittany will be stuck with the rest of the insufferable dancers in this production who go  _way_ over the top in kissing Rachel Berry ass.

When the show is over, Brittany collapses into a chair in the dressing room. Sugar is chatting away to her, but she’s exhausted. She slips off the tap shoes that she wears in the final number, and she flexes her toes. She’s not a natural tap dancer, so she hates that part. She’s ready to go home. It’s been a long week, and there’s still four shows before her next day off, but in order to do that, she actually has to stand up and put on street shoes. She’s contemplating doing just that, when there’s a strange sort of tittering in the dressing room, and she looks up, seeing Jeffrey the security guard and a familiar face, a face she isn’t sure she’s ready to look it.

“Hi.” Santana murmurs, ignoring the chattering around her and looking directly at Brittany. She’s dressed all in black, flowing pants and a sleeveless blouse, like she just came from work. In her arms, she holds a bouquet of white calla lilies, and her hair falls in soft waves on her shoulder. She looks beautiful, so beautiful, and Brittany has to close her eyes, taking a moment to remember that this is the woman who hasn’t called her in sixteen days,  _not_ the woman who made her breakfast and smiled across the table. “You were amazing up there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kinda my job, so…”

“Well you’re really good at it.” Her voice wavers a little bit, nervous, and Brittany almost takes pity on her and stands up to greet her.  _Almost,_ until Sugar gets there first, hands crossed over her chest and one eyebrow raised as she looks Santana up and down.

“Let me guess, Santana? 

“Yes, I—”

“That was a rhetorical question. I can smell Oscar de la Renta and Manolo Blahnik from a mile away. You show up with your expensive flowers and your compliments and you think that makes up for blowing off my homegirl? Get real, get lost.”

“I’m…not sure exactly who you are.”

“Your worst nightmare. You don’t  _want to know_ who my father is.”

“Sugar.” Brittany stands, gently stopping her friend. She knows that she means well, but…Santana’s here, with flowers and her pretty face, and yeah, she’s totally and completely pissed at her, but still, she can’t help herself. “I’ll take it from here.” Sugar tilts her head in Brittany’s direction, and Brittany shakes her head slowly. “Really, Shug, I promise. I got this.”

“Alright.” She concedes, skeptical. “But I’ll make that call, if you need me to.”

“I know.” Brittany nods. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Brittany waits, before she speaks to Santana. She watches as she shuffles her expensive shoes on the linoleum floor, eyes darting around to the other dancers who watch them. She’s uncomfortable, Brittany knows as much, she knows that Santana is a very private person, and coming here, talking to her in front of people she doesn’t know, it’s a lot. But still, there was a phone. There was a phone that Santana didn’t use, not for over two weeks. There was a phone that could have prevented her having to show up here with flowers, in front of all these people. So Brittany lets her squirm, even if it’s just for a moment.

“Can we maybe…?” Santana’s hand flails in the air, trying to convey talking, or leaving, or maybe something else entirely.

“Come outside.” Brittany tries to keep her voice flat, devoid of emotion, but with Santana, who smells like Chanel No. 5, and who behaves around her in such stark contrast to the way she claims to around everyone else, she knows it’s impossible.

Giving Sugar a small wave, Brittany, still in costume, still in her bare feet, walks down a long, narrow backstage hallway, checking, occasionally, to see that Santana is still following her. She is. She follows her the entire way, silent, even as they traipse up two flights of stairs, and Brittany opens the door to the rooftop, the city lights twinkling, and the wail of an ambulance siren cutting through the cool, late October night.

“Better?” Brittany asks, arching an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

“Yeah, much.” Santana nods, eyeing Brittany cautiously.

“Go ahead. You wanted to talk?”

“I got you these.” She gestures to the flowers in her arms, but Brittany makes no effort to uncross her arms and take them. “I’m sorry for not calling you, or returning your call, or trying to see you again.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t too. Kind of made me feel like total crap. I had a really good time with you, but whatever.”

“No, Brittany, I don’t want it to be  _but whatever._ _”_

“Well you coulda frickin’ fooled me.” Brittany swallows hard, determined not to let her hurt come out in tears. “You can’t just show up at my work with flowers and think I’m going to be over it. Whatever, we had two-ish dates, but you made me _breakfast_. It’s not like we were  _dating_ or whatever, but you could have at least just called me back.”

“I know. I  _know._ _”_ Santana shifts the flowers and wrings her hands nervously. “I know I screwed up. I was going to call you, I wanted to you out to this Italian restaurant that I love. I wanted to call you the same day I saw you last and see if I could take you to lunch the  _next day._ But then I got stupid scared, because I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and why was I missing you when I saw you three hours before? I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to have feelings and deal with them. My whole life, I’ve been focused on being the very best at everything. I was the valedictorian of my high school, I graduated top of my class from Barnard, I started as a teller at the bank and I worked my ass off to get the job I have now. But this is just way out of my league. I can’t be the best at this, because I don’t know _how._ The whole thing was just too much for me, so I didn’t call the first day, or the second day, or the third day. I listened to your message like thirty times, I think I wore the machine tape out, but I still didn’t call. And then too much time passed, and I didn’t know what to do, because I still couldn’t get you out of my head. So here I am, hoping that you’ll give me a second chance, and hoping maybe we could actually try this _dating_ thing.”

“Dating isn’t about being the  _best._ _”_ She watches Santana, still shuffling her feet, shifting the flowers into the bend of her elbow, so she can wring her hands. Brittany bites her tongue and wrinkles her nose, deciding just how honest she wants to be with her. “But if you want to talk about best, I had one of the best nights of my life with you, and then a pretty shitty two weeks to follow it.”

“I really want to make it up to you, please, Britt. I don’t do this, I have never begged for anything in my life, but if you want me to beg, I will.”

“I don’t want you to  _beg,_ Santana. I just want you to be honest with me. Everyone’s always so dishonest at the start of any kind of relationship, and I don’t wanna get burned.”

“I’m not gonna burn you.” Santana sucks in a breath, and Brittany cocks her head, considering. “Please? Can I just take you somewhere. Somewhere we can talk and we’re not freezing?”

“I’m not going back to your apartment, so you can sex me into forgiving you. I’m mad at you, but you’re still so hot, and my vagina cannot be trusted.”

“I— _what?_ _”_

“We’ll go back there, and then you’ll sit on your couch, and I won’t be able to think about anything but how hot you look naked with your legs spread, preferably with my head between them. Then the whole thing will be entirely unproductive, and we’ll be right back where we started.”

“Okay.” Santana drags out her  _y_ and pinches her eyes shut, very clearly trying not to picture what it is Brittany is talking about. “I wasn’t going to take you back to my apartment. I just wanted to maybe sit down, have coffee, or dinner, if you’re hungry, and talk.”

“Santana, it’s almost midnight.”

“You took me to a diner in the middle of the night.”

“So you want to go to the diner?”

“I mean, if you want to go to the diner, that’s fine. But I made some phone calls, there’s a French place downtown that’s open until two.”

“So you want to take me for French food in the middle of the night?”

“Look, if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to go.” Santana huffs, and Brittany’s eyes widen.

“Okay,  _you_ don’t really get to get pissed at  _me_  right now for trying to figure out what it is you want to do,  _okay?_ If you want to take me to dinner, start by asking.  _Brittany, would you like to go out for snooty French food in the middle of the night?_ _”_

“It’s not snooty French food.”

“Fine.  _Brittany, would you like to go out for not-snooty French food in the middle of the night?_ _”_

“Really?”

“Really. You’re the one who wants to be  _the best_ at this dating thing, so let me teach you. Lesson number one, if you want to take me on a date, ask me, Santana.”

“This feels ridiculous.” Santana purses her lips, and Brittany presses the palms of her hands to her forehead, looking up at the dark sky and shaking her head. Santana pauses, and then speaks again, seeming to question  _herself_ as the words come out. “Brittany, will you have dinner with me? Please?”

“Yes, Santana, I’ll have dinner with you.”

“Oh, thank God.” She exhales sharply. Brittany just can’t help but smile at her. This woman, she’s going to drive her absolutely insane, that’s for sure, but after two weeks of pining, there’s no way she won’t give her a second chance, there’s no way she won’t hope that everything she’s saying is sincere, that she won’t run again.

While Brittany finally changes out of her costume, Santana waits outside the dressing room. Everyone else has gone, save for the lone security guard, who’s there all night anyway, and Brittany knows, as Santana sits in one of the prop chairs on the other side of the door, still holding those flowers—really, really gorgeous ones, Brittany has to admit—that she’s far more comfortable now than she was, that out of the eye of other people, she can actually breathe a sigh of relief. She’s glad for that, really. As much as she was, or probably, still is, pissed off at Santana, something like this, this discomfort with people knowing who she  _is,_ is never a thing that Brittany wants her to feel.

After she’s dressed in her beat up old jeans and a t-shirt, she sits down to pull on bright yellow Converse, and emerges from the dressing room, shrugging her leather jacket on. Santana mumbles something about having checked her coat, and Brittany is quick to retrieve it for her, finally taking the flowers while Santana buttons herself up.

“Do you have your bike?” Santana asks, looking around when they exit the building. She’s nervous, Brittany can tell, she’s obviously not usually in this part of town at this time of night, and it’s not exactly the best place to be—and she avoids telling Santana that her own neighborhood is _way_ worse.

“Nah, something’s up with the motor, I gotta work on it tomorrow. I took the subway.”

“Oh.” Santana’s face scrunches up in concern, but she knows it’s not her place to say how much it worries her, Brittany riding those trains, especially late at night. “Let’s get a cab, it’s too far to walk.”

They’re silent on the cab ride downtown. The scent of lilies fills the backseat, a lucky break, Brittany thinks, so she can avoid smelling Santana and wanting to move closer to her. Most of the time, Santana picks at the non existent cuticles of her perfectly manicured nails. Brittany wonders what its like to be as Santana is, to worry about every single thing, to not call someone you’re interested in, to constantly tangle yourself in knots. She hardly knows Santana, and yet, she can see all of those things. It goes so much further than having to be closeted at work, with most of her family, it’s like she self-flagellates, like she wants to keep herself from having something _normal,_ because it’s not the kind of normal she’s supposed to want. It’s for that reason that Brittany will give her a second chance, because Santana will always be harder on herself than anyone else will be on her, and Brittany thinks, maybe, maybe, she can be the one who isn’t. Brittany thinks that she can be the one who helps her loosen up, even if it’s just a little bit. Brittany Pierce doesn’t shy away from a challenge, and making Santana Lopez relax,  _that_ is definitely a challenge.

The restaurant really is way downtown, not far from Santana’s job. Brittany can’t help but wonder if Santana went there on her lunch to check it out. It seems like something she would do, thorough and meticulous, on the off chance that Brittany agreed come with her. It sort of makes her smile internally as Santana holds the door open for her. When she gives her name to the maitre’d, Brittany’s suspicions are confirmed, and she follows Santana to the back of the restaurant, her heart fluttering a little, in spite of herself. She slides into the booth and slips off her jacket, watching as Santana watches her.

“Been here before?” Brittany quirks an eyebrow as she’s handed a menu. Santana ducks her head when the maitre’d steps away, and she takes a deep breath.

“I have business lunches here sometimes. It’s not where I would have chosen to take you on…on a date, but my options were limited, they were the only place I called that was open this late. Next time, I’ll take you the place that I really wanted to take you…if there’s a next time.”

“Lesson number two, you don’t have to take me to nice restaurants to make me like you, Santana. I already do.”

“That’s something I know how to do though.“

"Okay. I’m just saying you don’t  _have_ to.” She bites her lip, and for the sake of total honesty—though she’s sure Santana already knows this—she continues. “I’d love to be able to take you on nice dates, but I don’t have the money to. Robbie’s place is about as nice as it gets for me.”

“Robbie’s place is perfect.” Santana laughs, the relief, Brittany thinks, that they’re talking about future dates, washing over her. “So this isn’t it then?”

“I guess not.” Under the table, Brittany creeps her hand toward Santana, settling it on her thigh and smiling when Santana takes it and squeezes it, not letting go.

“Brittany.” Her face darkens, serious, like all of the storms inside that pretty little head of hers have manifested there. “There’s a lot that I can’t give you.”

“Santana.”

“No, please. Let me say it. I need to say it, I need you to understand.”

“I think I understand it without you saying.”

“I think you do too, but please? For the sake of second chances?”

“Okay.” Glad she can squeeze Santana’s hand, Brittany nods her consent.

“I wish—I wish that I could give you everything. I hardly know you, but I  _do._ I feel like I know you so much already, and I know that the last two weeks aside, I really want this to be something real.”

“I want that too.”

“I know that you have your roommates, and your work friends and your parents who all  _know.”_ Santana stops to pinch her eyes shut, just for a moment, her face darker still. When she opens them again, she can’t look at Brittany’s face, so she looks anywhere else, studying the gilded decor behind her head. “It’s not like that for me, Brittany. I have three people in my life who do, that’s it. I’ve never done this before, partially because there’s no one I’ve ever met who’s made me want to…deal with both sides of myself. I can’t give you Thanksgiving at my parents’ house in Queens. I can’t give you cocktail parties at my job. I can’t do that, because I can’t be  _honest_ with my family or my boss or the people who work for me about who I am. I’ve spent my whole life working toward this and…honesty could take it all away. I just need you to know that. That’s never going to change, and I’m sorry.”

“Hey, look at me.” Brittany’s tone softens, any residual anger that she felt toward Santana melting away at her genuine confession. “I understand that. I would never expect you to out yourself, I know how people are, I know that I’m really lucky, doing what I do, having the crazy hippy family I do. I only asked you to be honest with  _me_. That’s it.”

“That and calling you back.”

“Also that, yeah. I’d also really prefer you don’t fall off the face of the earth for weeks at time.” A smile curls at the corners of Brittany’s mouth, and Santana’s eyes sparkle. “So should we start over? Hi, I’m Brittany Pierce, dancer extraordinaire, owner of a motorcycle.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Brittany Pierce.” Santana plays along, extending her right hand, the one that isn’t still holding Brittany’s where no one can see it, to shake. “I’m Santana Lopez, bank manager and kitchen singer.”

“Well, Santana Lopez, bank manager and kitchen singer, what do you say we order some dinner? I don’t speak French, other that  _pas de deux_ and  _pirouette,_  so lesson number three, if you’re going to take me for snooty French food, you have make sure I don’t eat anything weird.”

“That, I definitely think I can manage.”


	5. Something's Telling Me It Might Be You

It’s difficult for her, but Santana is trying. Letting someone into her life, into her day to day, into her home, more than just for one single night, it’s strange, and it’s vaguely unsettling, but she’s doing it, it seems. She’s letting her surprisingly strong feelings for Brittany Pierce outweigh the rest of it, so so far, it’s been good, no, it’s been absolutely amazing.

Nearly a month passed since the night Santana showed up at Brittany’s show. October has rolled into November, and with that, the typical holiday busyness has set in. Brittany dances to sold out shows every night, Santana knows, and Santana, well, she’s caught up in year end. She’s caught up in making sure not a single digit is off in her reports. She’s caught up in making sure that her current state of personal bliss doesn’t damage the professional rapport that she’s spent the better part of the past eight years building, and that responsibility, it winds her even more tightly than she typically is, it winds her so tightly that she’s fairly certain she might snap.

She works a lot. She works late nights, climbing out of a cab close to midnight more often than not, her hair pulled loose in the hours since she sent her staff home, her ankles throbbing and popping from her heels on tiled floors, a migraine throbbing behind her eyes. But she sees Brittany whenever she can. She spends Tuesday evenings with her. She takes her on late night dates on Fridays—easier for her, maybe, she thinks—and she lets Brittany take her to breakfasts on Saturdays. They end up back at Santana’s afterward, always. Santana lets her tight composure unwind beneath Brittany. She lets Brittany kiss her lips, her eyelids, the insides of her wrists. It’s too intimate, but she doesn’t run. She begs Brittany to stay in bed when she leaves for work, not to get up early after their late nights just because she has to, to stay in bed and to help herself to whatever she wants for breakfast before she goes. Santana kisses Brittany’s forehead and her eyelids too. It’s too intimate, but she craves more.

It’s a Tuesday morning. Santana is on a warpath. Even the lingering dull soreness between her legs from her Sunday, and the purpling bruise she remembers on her inner thigh when she steps into the bathroom to keep from firing and/or murdering Jacob Ben Israel for a substantial oversight doesn’t quell the bubbling anxiety inside of her. She has to fix everyone else’s mistakes, and she barely has time to get any of her own work done. She hates Tuesdays. It’s like everyone uses up all of their brain on Monday, and they’re left utterly incompetent for the rest of the week. She hates Tuesdays, and this particular one, it’s more nerve wracking than normal. It’s more nerve wracking than usual, because she made a promise to Brittany, and all of her work stress pales in comparison to the anxiety she feels about  _that._

* * *

_“Hey, babe?” Brittany asks, her never-still fingers trailing over Santana’s bare back. They’re lying in bed on Sunday morning. Santana has barely regained her ability to breathe normally, and has collapsed on her stomach, hair in her face, Brittany still half draped over her._

_“Mmhmm?”_

_“You can like, totally say no to this, so don’t feel like you can’t okay?” Her voice is soft, and her eyes blink rapidly, nervously._

_“You gotta give me like…ten minutes to recover.” Santana’s eyes snap open to meet crystal blue, and Brittany smiles, shaking her head and kissing her lips. She’s adventurous in bed, for certain, but now, she’s not talking about trying something new, she’s not talking about completely blowing Santana’s mind when she feels things she never even_ dreamed  _of._

_“No, no, it’s not about that. I mean, I could definitely come up with some ideas, if you wanted me too, you know, make it better, if it’s not_ _—”_

_“You’re perfect.” She says out loud, before her mind can_ _stop her, and she sucks her lips into her mouth, blushing. “I mean…it’s so good. Great. Amazing.”_

_“You’re cute.” Brittany’s lashes flutter, and Santana’s heart does in response. Her fingers still on Santana’s back, falling to rest just above the swell of her ass, and she takes_ _a deep breath. It’s rare that Brittany gets nervous, and noticing that she is, Santana props her head up on her hand, giving her undivided attention. “I was actually going to ask you…I mean, obviously my friends know about you, and they’re kind of just…They want to meet you, is all.”_

_“Oh.” Her heart lurches at the words. It doesn’t surprise her, not really, Mercedes, her own closest confidante, has begun pestering her about the same thing, her cousin, the only one in her family that she’s out to, wants to know about the girl his friend told him she’d left the bar with on their blind date. But still. Brittany’s friends knowing who she is in_ theory _is one thing, actually meeting her, seeing her face, it freaks her out. It freaks her out a lot._

_“You can really say no, I promise, I won’t be mad at all. They just asked me to ask you, and they’re going out on Tuesday. Obviously, if you don’t want to go, I want to have date-Tuesday with you, it’s totally better than watered down beer at this lame-o bar…”_

_“You’re really selling this, aren’t you?” Santana can’t help but laugh, watching Brittany’s eyes crinkle nervously. “Brittany. Do you want me to meet them?”_

_“I mean…” It’s clear Brittany is choosing her words carefully. “I definitely want you to meet them, yeah. I mean, I’m super close with them, and I think you’d like them, especially Mike and Artie. But, I also really don’t want you to do something that will make you uncomfortable, so mostly, I want either thing, yes or no.”_

_“Thank you.” Santana smiles. “Even though your answer was incredibly non-committal, I appreciate the sentiment.”_

_“You don’t have to tell me now. And you can also totally tell me and still change your mind. I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything.”_

_“Britt.” Santana presses her thumb into Brittany’s cheek, just feeling completely enamored with this woman. “If your friends want to meet me, and you want me to meet them, then I want to meet them.”_

_“Really?” Brittany squeaks a little, catching Santana’s lips in a kiss._

_“Really, definitely really.” Santana feels a tight laugh in her throat, all her anxiety completely worth it for the look on Brittany’s face._

* * *

At six-ten, Santana is still dealing with Ben Israel’s mess. The minutes on her watch tick away faster than she can handle, and her chest hurts, thinking that she needs to be in the East Village in twenty minutes. She’d planned to leave today at five o'clock, to go home and change into something decidedly not  _this,_ before meeting Brittany’s friends. She didn’t want to look like she’d come from the bank, she wanted to look a little more like she belonged in this  _lame-o_ bar, as Brittany had called it. She’d wanted to do something with her hair, to pull it out of the skull numbing bun she wears it in most of the time at work, and really, though she struggles to admit it even to herself, she’d wanted to make sure she looked pretty enough to make Brittany’s friends believe she was good enough for her.

It’s six-thirty-seven when she’s finally ready to leave, seven minutes after she’s supposed to be  _at_ the bar. She’d been so occupied with cleaning up the mess that Santana hadn’t noticed that it had begun to rain—and not a light drizzle, a full on downpour. She grabs an umbrella from the rack by the door, and she pulls her jacket tight around herself, bracing for the weather as she steps out into the evening darkness. It takes nearly ten minutes for her to get a cab, and Santana curses everything as her shoes get soaked, her stockings get soaked, and even more time ticks by. She’s late, she’s meeting Brittany’s friends and she’s late, something she  _never_ is, and by the time a cab finalły pulls over, and she gives the address, Santana is on the verge of a full fledged anxiety attack.

Pulling a compact out of her purse, Santana spends the ride attempting to look at least  _slightly_ less disheveled, wiping mascara from beneath her eyes, smoothing her frizzing hair, reapplying her lipstick, and attempting to pat her stockings dry. It’s after seven when the cab finally pulls up in front of the bar, and Santana sucks in a deep breath, swallowing hard in a frantic effort to quell her anxiety both about being late, and about meeting the people Brittany cares so deeply about. She dashes to the entryway, hoping to avoid further water related disaster, and as soon as she steps in the door,  _867-5309_ playing over the sound system, her eyes scan the room for a flash of blonde hair.

“Santana!” Brittany’s voice rises over everything else, and she stands from her seat, waving her arms and moving toward Santana, lime green leggings making her glow, almost, under the bar’s neon lights. When she reaches the door, Santana breathes in her scent, and she feels a strange sense of comfort wash over her as Brittany surreptitiously squeezes her left hip. “I got worried you changed your mind, I haven’t been home all day to answer the phone…”

“I’m  _so_ sorry I’m late, Britt, and that I’m dressed like this. I had this whole plan to go home and not look like the kind of person everyone in this bar probably hates and then—”

“Hey, it’s totally cool, babe.” Brittany leans in, hugging her, so her lips are close to Santana’s ear and she can murmur into it. “You look beautiful, and you  _know_ I’m all about these skirts and sexy blazers of yours. Come sit so I can get you a drink, you look like you’ve had a day.”

“More like a day and a half.” She sighs a little, but can’t help but smile at the way Brittany’s brow quirks in concern. “But I’m here now, and I’m really happy to see you.”

Grinning, Brittany leads Santana over to the table where her friends sit. She recognizes Artie and Mike from the club, of course, and it’s not difficult for Santana to figure out which of the girls is Tina and which is Lauren. It’s funny—or maybe funny isn’t the word at all—how Santana can sit in a boardroom full of suit clad men in power and hold her own, but now, meeting Brittany’s group of friends, her knees threaten to buckle, and she feels a sheen on panic induced sweat forming along the underwire of her bra. .

“Guys.” Brittany chips. “This is Santana. Santana, Tina, Artie, Mike and Lauren, my roommates.”

“Better late than never.” Lauren sucks her teeth, looking her up and down, and Santana feels a pull of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. “Figured you blew us off for something better, a cocktail party in Connecticut looks about right.”

“Bag your face, Lauren, she came right from work.”

“Clearly.”

“Hey, mama, nice to meet you.” Artie cuts off anything else Lauren plans to say and reaches across the table, shuffling a little in his wheelchair. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you too.” She smiles, shaking hands with Artie, then Mike, and sinking into the chair that Brittany so chivalrously pulls out for her.

“Santana, what are you drinking?” Mike asks, hushing Brittany’s protests that she’ll go to the bar for her. Brittany takes a seat beside Santana instead, and under the table, she searches for her hand, squeezing it, calming her.

“Beer’s good.” Santana notes the other pint glasses. “Here, let me give you some—”

“Nope, absolutely not. I’m just gonna grab you a glass and another pitcher, we can fight it out over who gets the next one.”

Santana takes comfort in Mike’s warmth, and she appreciates the trait she’d seen in his brother as well. Once Mike returns, setting a glass down in front of Santana, and refilling everyone else’s—everyone but Brittany who, as usual, drinks water—idle chatter ensues. Remaining mostly quiet, except when Brittany’s friends took turns with their rapid fire questions—where’s she from? what are her parents like? where did she go to school? why become a banker?—Santana listens. Strange as she feels, out of her element in this little gay bar on Delancey Street, she wants to know these people, even Lauren, who spends twenty minutes in the payphone booth, talking to some guy. She wants to know them, because they mean something to Brittany, and, well, Brittany really means something to  _her._

“So listen to  _this one,_ Santana.” Mike starts laughing before he begins the story, and Tina smacks his arm.

“This story  _sucks,_ don’t go telling everyone.”

“Oh, c'mon, T.” Brittany chides, blue eyes dancing. “I’m just going to tell her later anyway.”

“You guys  _suck.”_

“Only four and half of us.” Artie corrects, and Brittany lets her tongue fall out of her mouth.

“Ugh, gag me with a spoon. This is why I never bring anyone to meet you, you’re all gross.”

“And yet we get the  _pleasure_ of meeting Richie Bitch.” Lauren snarks, making Brittany kick get under the table. “Have I told you how  _lovely_ it is to meet you, Santana?”

“Telling a story here, Zises.” Mike snaps his fingers to draw attention back to him. ’

“Anyway, this guy comes in before, dressed like a fricking ventriloquist dummy.”

“He was  _not_ dressed like a ventriloquist dummy. His bow tie was cute.”

“His bow tie made him look like a serial killer, Tina.” Brittany giggles. “I also thought maybe it was holding his head on. That and the gel in his hair. Bet he’s the one keeping DEP in business.”

“So he gets up there and starts bogarting the stage.” Artie continues for Mike, and Santana can’t help but smile at the loving look they share. “And he tells everybody he’s dedicating this song to this guy Jeremiah, and no fake, he starts singing  _Every Breath You Take.”_

“What?” Santana snorts her beer, than flushes with embarrassment when she dribbles a little down her chin. “Who would dedicate that stalker song to someone?”

“A creep-o. But you haven’t heard the best part.” Artie claps his hands together. “The guy he was singing to totally bugs out, and gets up and slaps him across the face and  _then_ he starts to  _cry._ So then he comes over and proceeds to chat up Mike for an hour—”

“ _Which_ got all of us three free pitchers of beer.”

“Babe, I know you ain’t going nowhere, I’m not jealous.” Artie laughs at Mike’s effort to justify the guy’s flirting. “But then  _Tina_ decides he’s clearly into Asians, so  _she_ starts hitting on him _.”_

“I was not  _hitting on him.”_ Tina downs the rest of her beer and the glass hits the table with a thud. “I just felt bad for him, he put himself out there. I don’t hit on gay guys…anymore.”

“Tina and I dated in high school.” Mike chuckles. “Then she dated Artie, then Artie and I started dating each other.”

“Ouch.” Santana shakes her hand out in front of her like she’s been burned. “Rough break.”

“That’s like so 1973, I’m totally over it. Tonight I just felt bad for the guy.”

“I might have too, if he didn’t get up there with a head so big I thought it might explode all over us. Really, after you made me watch  _Dawn Of the Dead_ last month _,_ I’ve got my fill of seeing human brains for like, ever.” Brittany wrinkles her nose, and Santana smiles at her softly, her every facial expression making her stomach fill with butterflies. “Also the story is way funnier when you picture Tina hitting on him. Tina, really, practice your flirting.”

“I wasn’t  _flirting.”_

“Sure you weren’t, I see your little hair flip chest touch thing. Creepy. Don’t come here next week and sing that song for  _him.”_

Santana and the others laugh with Brittany, and eventually, Tina can’t help but join in too. Content with their earlier inquisition of her, they let Santana be her usually reserved self, not comfortable revealing too much to people she’s just met. She listens to them talk though, learning each one of them. Artie tells her how he’d been in Vietnam for two weeks, only months before the war was over, and he’d taken a bullet to the spine. He says that he considers himself sort of lucky though, that he could have seen  _way_ worse over there, and that him ending up paralyzed made Mike finally wise up and take him out for dinner—also making sure Santana knows that he still works  _down there,_ in case she was thinking otherwise. Tina talks a  _lot_ _—_ much of which includes complaints, though Brittany tells her to stop being so damn depressing—but Santana thinks she really likes her. Lauren is brash, and frankly, a little terrifying, like she could whip Santana around like a rag doll, if she wanted to. But they’re funny, all of them in their own way, and Santana’s quakey knees have mostly subsided. She loves seeing Brittany in her own element, and even more than that, she loves the way Brittany holds her hand on her knee beneath the table, her thumb stroking the inside of her thigh, soothing her, relaxing her.

“You wanna dance?” Brittany asks. They’ve been in the bar a few hours, Santana’s starting to feel tipsy from the beer she’s had, and Artie and Mike have already found their own place on the dance floor, touchy and laughing as Mike spins Artie’s chair around.

“Yeah, definitely.” Santana nods, letting Brittany’s hand fell to rest on her lower back as she leads her from the table to the dance floor.  _Billie Jean_ blares overhead, and Santana swallows hard as Brittany moonwalks a little.

They dance. Brittany, as she always does, has the place staring at her, and even Santana steps back a little to watch. She’s mesmerizing, truly, and though she’s seen her now on stage, she can’t get over the way she dances when she doesn’t have a choreographer to listen to. There’s something about how  _physical_  Brittany is, how truly unabashed, that makes Santana pinch her thighs together, the heat forming between them at the sight before her almost embarrassing. But Brittany is sexy,  _too_ sexy, almost, and the way she moves out there only serves to remind Santana how she moves when they’re alone, how flexible she is not just when dropping into a spontaneous split on the floor of a bar, and her eyes, those eyes that never leave Santana’s face, _they_ remind her how much much than just physical this thing between them is.

When the music slows down and Brittany pulls Santana in to dance with her to  _It Might Be You,_ Santana’s neck flushes. It’s another new thing for her, one of far too many to count, slow dancing like this, and when Brittany pulls her a little closer, she checks with Santana that it’s alright. She nods slowly, her heart pounding again her rib cage—and not because they’re in public, she’s fine with this, in a bar full of people like them. Her heart pounds, because the things she feels for Brittany, they’re new too, and perhaps more nerve wracking than anything, those feelings don’t scare her in the way that made her run anymore, they don’t scare her in the way she thinks maybe they should.

“You okay?” Brittany asks, her eyes trained on Santana’s face, her fingers trailing ever so lightly down her back.  _If I found the place, would I recognize the face? Something’s telling me it might be you._

“Yeah, totally. I like this song, even though I hated the movie.”

“You and I, Santana Lopez, are never going to agree on movies, I think you and most of  _America_ don’t agree on movies.”

“You know the kind I like.” She shrugs a little, Brittany’s breath tickling her neck. “I know you think I’m boring, wanting to watch foreign films and documentaries.”

“I actually don’t think anything about you is boring.” Brittany licks her lips a little, sincere. “Plus you totally promised me if you could find  _Divorce Italian Style_ on Betamax that we’d watch it and I’d think it was funny.”

“That’s true, I  _did_ promise you that, and once work gets a little less crazy, I will.”

“Thank you for coming tonight.” Brittany shifts gears, an adoring little smile forming on her face. “I know you said you had a stressful day, and works been  _so_ crazy for you. I’d have totally understood if you had to cancel.”

“I wouldn’t have done that. It’s your only night off, and I wanted to spend it with you. Plus, I like your friends.”

“Except Lauren.”

“I don’t…it’s not that…Lauren is a  _beautiful_ person.”

“You have a lame poker face. Also, Lauren is a bitch. Even if I’d believed you before, I’d have stopped believing you the moment you called her a beautiful person.”

“Well she’s your  _friend._ I want to get along with them.”

“Lauren put me in a chokehold once because I ate her last candy bar, you can still think she’s a bitch even though we’re friends.” Brittany sucks her teeth. “But I’m glad you mostly like them. They all really like you too. Mike and Artie especially, I totally checked when you went up the bathroom.”

“You’re too much.” Santana shakes her head a little, though her eyes widen and her heart rate speeds up. “But really? I’m not really sure how to do this kind of stuff at all, and making a good impression on your friends is  _way_ different than making an impression on a potential client.”

“Dating rule twenty-nine, just be  _you._ I happen to think you’re totally awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course yeah. I wouldn’t be hanging out with you if I didn’t think so. Save the handshakes and the perfectly ironed suits for your business meetings…actually, share the suits with me.” Brittany plays with the collar of her starched turquoise shirt, her blazer left folded over the back of her chair. “ _This_ might be my favorite yet.”

“Britt—” Santana starts, her voice soft and sentimental, and also slightly aroused, the way Brittany looks at her like she might devour her keying Santana up a little. It’s a tap on her shoulder from Mike that snaps her out of it, and she whips her head around. The song is over, and they’ve shifted from their slow dance when the Go-Go’s began playing, but still, the intrusion startles her.

“Hey Britt, mind if I steal your girl for a dance?”

“It’s okay with me, if you want, Santana.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Santana nods, though it’s been a long time since she’s danced with a man—her senior prom, to be exact—and she’s nervous enough about being with Brittany’s friends.

“I don’t bite, promise.” Mike invites her into his space, and with a wink, Brittany is off spinning Artie in his wheelchair.

“You’re here to tell me not to hurt her, aren’t you?”

“No, she’s a big girl, she knows what she’s getting into. I’m here to tell you that you’re already used up your wine and ice cream allowance with  _us._ She really likes you, and we like you too, but we’re a lot less forgiving than she is.“

"Okay.” Santana has trouble meeting his eyes, her palms sweaty and her neck hot. “I appreciate that she has good friends. Brittany knows…she knows who I am and what I can offer her, and I care about her a lot, so I really will do everything I can not to hurt her…or piss any of you off.”

“I think you’re nice. Quiet and definitely more conservative than we’re used to.” He cocks his head over to where Artie has opened his shirt and begun throwing dollar bills at Brittany. “But maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Thank you, Mike. And thanks for not…sending Lauren instead of you.”

“Oh, you only get Lauren if you hurt her.” Mike winks, and Santana blanches. “I’m kidding, it’s Artie you want to watch out for, he’ll run you over with his wheelchair.”

“Michael Robert Chang Junior.” Brittany turns around with a hand on her hip. “Come dance with your man and leave Santana alone.”

 _He_ _’s fine._ Santana mouths to her, but Brittany pushes Artie so Mike has to catch him, and she comes back to Santana’s side.

“I’m kind of ready to go.”

"Yeah, me too.” Santana pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are you…? I mean, it’s Tuesday, so…”

“You’re very cute when you’re trying to ask me to come home with you.” Brittany leans into murmur in Santana’s ear. “And I love how you’re such a creature of habit. I’m totally coming home with you, but are you down for grabbing some pizza or something on the way? ‘Cuz I’m starved.”

“Anything you want, Britt.” Santana means to sound breezy when she says it, but the words catch a little in her throat.

“Sweet! C'mon, let’s jet.”

“Alright, but let me say goodbye to everyone. I want to give Mike some money—”

“Santana.” Brittany grabs her hand to squeeze it, then lets it go gently. “I know you mean well, but don’t insult him. He wanted to buy you drinks, just let him, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Santana lets out a breath, a little uncomfortable with that.

“It’s cool, I promise.” She nods, then whispers to Santana. “He’s totally my favorite too.”

Lauren has disappeared when Brittany rounds everyone up—much to Santana’s relief, really, she’s sure Lauren isn’t feeling her at all, especially after she called her a Joanie—she’s gone to hook up with some guy, Tina tells Santana, she usually ditches them midway through any night out for that. Santana is taken aback by the hugs she gets, but she takes a breath and reciprocates. This is all really overwhelming to her, but the way Brittany smiles, her cheeks tight and her eyes dancing, well, that makes it all completely worth it.

It’s still pouring when they leave the bar, and Santana is glad Brittany doesn’t have her bike. Much as she loves being on the back of it, arms wrapped around Brittany’s waist and her chin pressed into her shoulder, her feet ache, and she’s already cold and ready to be back inside. She manages to hail a cab for them, and Brittany’s hand settles on her knee again, that private little way she has of being close by, even when Santana isn’t comfortable holding her hand. Pizza turns into dinner at Santana’s favorite restaurant, the place she’s now brought Brittany twice, and Santana’s cheeks redden at the sounds Brittany makes as she devours her spaghetti and meatballs, and every single time she makes jokes about reenacting  _Lady and the Tramp_ — _obviously_ Santana is Lady and she’s the Tramp, she giggles, fingering Santana’s gold bracelet under the table.  

When they finally arrive back at Santana’s close to midnight, she groans as she kicks off her heels, another solid seventeen hours in them really doing her in. Brittany notices her face, and the stress that comes back to it as she realizes that tomorrow is only Wednesday, and she’s still got three full days of work before she can relax. Before she can register what Brittany is doing, she’s behind her, untying the belt of Santana’s coat, slipping it from her shoulders, before unbuttoning the blazer beneath it as well, tossing them both on the bench in the entryway atop Brittany’s leather jacket, and pulling loose Santana’s tight bun. Though Santana’s immediate urge is to hang up her things and put her shoes in the closet, Brittany’s hands running through her hair and fingers massaging her scalp stops her in her tracks. The way this woman can relax her, it’s something else entirely, and she can’t help but close her eyes, and she can’t stop the small moan that escapes her throat as thumbs dig into her neck.

“Feels good.” Santana murmurs, putty in Brittany’s hands when she presses a soft kiss to tight strung muscles. “Such a shit month.”

“Let me take care of you.” Brittany hums into rain damp skin. “You feel like you need it.”

“Let me kiss you first.” She doesn’t protest Brittany’s request, but it’s been since Sunday afternoon that she’s felt Brittany’s mouth on hers, and she craves that feeling more than she craves anything else, she’s been craving it all night, waiting until they were here, behind closed doors, just them and whatever this is that’s growing between them.

Turning in Brittany’s arms, Santana brings her hands to Brittany’s face. She likes holding her like that, she’s decided. She likes when their entire attention is on each other, she likes when Brittany’s eyes search her whole face, she likes the entirety of this new, wholly  _terrifying_ experience. When Brittany’s eyes flick to her lips, Santana pulls her in for a kiss, and Brittany wraps her arms around Santana’s neck, bringing her closer still. Everything fades for Santana then, the anxieties that plague her every day, the ache in her feet, the strain of her sides against her bra. It all fades, and Santana is just left surrounded by Brittany’s warm source smell, her tongue pushing into her mouth, her always dancing fingers. It leaves her breathless when she finally pulls away, and Brittany is still there, fully encumbering her vision, dreamy little smile on her face.  

Brittany doesn’t say anything. She just takes Santana by the hand and she brings her to sit down on the couch. Santana’s brow quirks, she’s well aware of Brittany’s fixation with her on this couch, but she definitely doesn’t protest, not when Brittany’s expression is some strange mix of softness and desire, not when she kisses Santana’s chin, and undoes the top three buttons of her shirt. She remains wordless for a long time, climbing so her knees are on either side of Santana’s thighs, resuming her massage of her scalp, her neck, her shoulders. As Santana gets more and more relaxed, her eyes fluttering and her lips parting in bliss, Brittany slowly removes her clothes, wanting to take her time with her, wanting to worship the dark goddess who melts into the white cushions.

As Brittany bares her skin inch by inch, Santana can’t tear her eyes from her. When Santana moves to reciprocate, Brittany stills her hands and kisses a newly bared shoulder, tender, so tender with her  _everything._ Once her bra is unhooked and slipped off of her chest, Santana holds back her gasp as she realizes what Brittany is doing, lips pressed to the skin beneath her arms, where the underwire had pressed and marked. She’s not sure if she’s aroused or what, but something about what Brittany does to her, it makes insides twist like they never have before.

“You alright, Santana?” Brittany’s eyes look up, breath still hitting the side of Santana’s right breast. She feels the speed of her heart, Santana knows it, and her lashes flutter. “I want you to relax, but if this isn’t relaxing you…”

“No, no, I’m okay.” She resists the urge to beg Brittany not to stop, to  _never_  stop, to tell her how even her featherlight kisses feel like heaven on her skin, to promise her that she never feels more relaxed then when Brittany is touching her. “Better than okay.”

“Good.” Brittany grins from ear to ear, her thumb tracing Santana’s collar bone. “Then lie back, close your eyes.”

Santana fights the instruction for several moments, at least the second part. Giving up full control like that, denying herself sight, that’s difficult for her. Brittany doesn’t challenge her, she gets it, Santana thinks, she seems to  _always_  get it, even when Santana doesn’t make her thoughts clear, and she just resumes what she’s doing, kissing every inch of Santana’s skin, inching lower as Santana involuntarily parts her legs. They both know what she’s going for, Brittany husked her desire for it into Santana’s ear one morning as she left, her last night’s panties tossed casually into Santana’s hamper, and Santana’s skin tingles in anticipation. It’s nothing new with them, not really. She’s had Brittany between her legs dozens of times, she’s had Brittany on her face, hands gripping the headboard and thighs muffling all sound for Santana, she’s had Brittany in ways she never imagined she’d be with someone, so much more intimate than she would ever have allowed with anyone before, but it’s just…Brittany’s words that morning, and the thought of Brittany going down on her while she sits back on the couch, it feels dirtier somehow than in the bedroom. It feels like maybe it’ll be so intense that Santana will lose her ability to ever breathe again.

But Brittany takes her time. She’s not teasing Santana, she knows this isn’t the time for that—how well she’s figured out Santana’s body already, it sort of amazes them both—she’s just cherishing her, relaxing her, making her muscles jump, then settle, with every move. She continues to kiss, finding where Santana’s underwire pinched beneath her breasts, more indents in her skin, when Santana arches her back, and finally, making Santana succumb and close her eyes when she places quick hard kisses on her nipples, and she nearly chokes with want. Seeing only blackness, Santana feels everything so much more. She feels Brittany sink to the floor, hears the pull of her zipper, the rustle of fabric as Brittany removes the skirt entirely, and feels exactly where Brittany’s lips go, over where the waistband sat just moments earlier. It’s like she’s kissing it all away, every constriction of her day, bringing out all of Santana’s private self, the woman who falls back into the pillows, the woman who keens and whimpers, unencumbered by who she’s expected to be.

Once she’s completely naked, Santana can feel Brittany’s eyes on her, taking her in, and she can only imagine the sight she is. Beads of sweat form on her forehead, they trickle down her neck, and she knows, her dark hair pulled loose is curly and wild from the rain and the dancing, and from raking her hands through it to keep from grabbing hold of Brittany. She knows her chest heaves and her legs are spread completely, baring her everything, showcasing the strong physical effect that Brittany has on her. But Santana doesn’t feel embarrassed, though she ordinarily would. She doesn’t feel ashamed of her want, she doesn’t feel ashamed of letting someone else take the reigns so she can melt into white leather. No, she feels beautiful. She feels beautiful, because before she closed her own, she could see the lust in Brittany’s eyes, and she can hear Brittany’s words over and over in her head,  _I happen to think you’re totally awesome._

Brittany’s lips press just below her navel, finding the scar that Santana had told her the cause of one night, when her fingers stroked it gently. She’d fallen off the top of the slide in the schoolyard in third grade and her mom came to pick her up, doubled over and bleeding in the nurse’s office. Her mother yelled at her all the way to the hospital for fooling around. She’d gotten nine stitches there, and that was when her parents forbade her from playing with the boys. Brittany kisses it over and over again, like she wants to make it better, like she wants to make every twist in her stomach when she thinks about her parents go away. She kisses it, and then she finds Santana’s hands, squeezing them both in reassurance and a silent request for permission to continue like this. Santana squeezes back, her eyes still closed. It defies so much about her, letting go like this, trusting Brittany as implicitly as she does, but it feels right, more right than anything has in a long time, and when she feels Brittany’s lips on her sex, she arches up, seeking more of it, seeking this and only this forever.  

“You’re beautiful.” Brittany whispers, like a prayer, almost, and Santana isn’t sure why she gasps at that, why it sends a jolt of something so unfamiliar straight to every cell of her being.

As Brittany’s hands squeeze her ass, lifting her up to bring her closer to her face, her tongue works between her legs, Santana’s neck sinks further into the pillows. She forgets how to think, she forgets how to breathe almost, her body’s inner desire to just  _feel_ replacing all else. She aches, and she moans as Brittany’s tongue probes at her entrance, she gasps as Brittany brings her hands into blonde hair, encouraging her to weave them in, encouraging her to tell her what makes her feel good. When she comes, she convulses, her body wracked with tremors and her throat gasping for breath. She shakes for what feels like hours, and Brittany, she licks her gently, Brittany, she traces fingers down the sides of her thighs. When Santana can finally lift her head from the couch cushions, still trembling, she finally opens her eyes again. They open slowly, lazily, and Brittany, kneeling on the floor before her, lifts her head up too. Blue eyes dance, and she swipes her tongue over her bottom lip, chin and cheeks wet from her efforts, smile forming on her mouth. The sight makes Santana’s stomach coil tight, the sight makes Santana’s heart race with a startling revelation, one that blindsides her completely and makes starfish hands open and close, a futile effort to find a grasp on the thoughts—or singular thought, rather— that rushes through her head.

“What?” Brittany asks, eyes darting in alarm.

“Nothing.” Santana shakes her head, voice cracking and wavering, breath labored as tiny tremors still hit her and this strong feeling threatens to overwhelm her entirely. “Just…thank you.”

“You’re thanking me after sex?” She furrows her brow, teasing a little, but also slightly confused, and Santana finds Brittany’s hands, mustering her strength to pull her to straddle her lap, eager to kiss her lips again.

“I’m thanking you for relaxing me.” Santana’s hands squeeze Brittany’s and let them go, sliding them up under her shirt and cupping her breasts, breath hitching when she finds her without a bra. She kisses her slow, deep, and then finds the spot on Brittany’s neck that drives her wild. Heart still hammering at her realization, a weighty one, for sure, she channels it into making Brittany feel good. Sucking below her ear, holding the weight of her breasts in her hands, thumbing her nipples, making her hiss, when she nips her skin. “And this is far from over, Britt. Give me just a second to feel my body again, and we’re taking this to the bedroom.”


	6. What It Is, Though Old, So New

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[leigh-kelly](http://leigh-kelly.tumblr.com/)

September 17th 2015, 8:45:47 pm · an hour ago

What It Is, Though Old, So New

A continuation of [80′s AU](http://leigh-kelly.tumblr.com/tagged/80's+AU).

She’s fallen hard for Santana, Brittany has decided. Really, she’d tried to stop herself from doing that, especially after the initial hiccups, but she can’t help herself. There’s just something about her, something that makes her knees weak and her chest hurt. She’s beautiful, of course, more beautiful than anything Brittany has ever met, by a long shot, but it’s more than that, it’s  _so_ much more than that. It’s something deeper than that, something that hides behind those dark, serious eyes, something that Brittany finds herself aching to uncover like she never has before. Santana is beautiful, and something about her beauty, it haunts Brittany. Something about the way Brittany is able to peel layers back—something she thinks no one else can’t do, Santana, she’s wrapped so tight, after all—it makes her feel like even with all Santana’s worries about  _everything,_ her furrowed brows and anxious stomach, that what’s building between them is something that’s meant to last, it feels like something so strong that even Santana can’t fight it.

Thanksgiving approaches. Her parents, they bought her a ticket back home. She has a show Wednesday night and one Friday night, so really, she’ll end up in Arizona for just over twenty-four hours, but her mom is looking forward to it, and she hasn’t seen her family since Easter, so Brittany is pretty excited too. Tuesday, she packs, if throwing a dress for dinner and one extra outfit in a backpack can really even count as packing, whatever else she needs, she’ll steal from her sister when she gets there. She cleans up around the apartment, since everyone else, save for Mike, who’s with Artie, has already gone back home. She takes her bike out for a little while. She waits for Santana to get off of work. She can’t really tell, since Santana’s so guarded, but she thinks maybe she’s a little bummed that Brittany’s leaving. Her parents, of course, expect her there for dinner at their house, but still, had Brittany been in town, they probably could have spent the night together, with Brittany off.

But it can’t be changed now. These plans Brittany made with her mom came long before Santana, but even if they  _hadn’t,_ Brittany knows it’ll be awhile before she can get back home again, and she needs to go. So Brittany waits for Santana to get off work. They’re going to have their own turkey dinner at the diner Brittany had taken her to the night they met. It had been Brittany’s idea, and the way it made Santana smile, it caused her heart to race. It’s something special to Brittany, those smiles she gets. She knows that all day, Santana has deep lines in her forehead, that her hair is pulled back so tightly she gets headaches, that her shirts are buttoned up and her heels are too high and they pinch her feet, but when Brittany gets her, she can help loosen all of that up. She can see her smile, her messy hair on the pillow, wearing nothing but Brittany’s smiley face t-shirt, she can see her take actual breaths, and not worry that she suddenly becomes less than large than life.

So they go to dinner. Santana had worn a pantsuit to work, and it takes a lot for Brittany not to jump her in the middle of the diner. She settles for a hand on her knee under the table, pinky creeping just a little too high, until Santana squeezes her hand to make her stop. Santana drips gravy of her blouse, and as she quickly dabs it away, Brittany watches, attention rapt. She loves Santana’s every imperfection. She thinks, truly, that she’s falling  _in_ love with her, a thought she chooses to keep to herself, fearful that saying it out loud this soon will send Santana skittering back to the place where she doesn’t call.

She spends the night Tuesday, she always does. Then, when Santana leaves for work Wednesday morning, and she kisses a half-asleep Brittany goodbye, she asks her to stay again, to come back after work. Brittany’s flight is early Thursday morning, and Santana’s hoping she can call a car and bring her there herself. She doesn’t want Brittany on the bus in the middle of the night, she wants to make sure she gets to the airport safely. Brittany just smiles and nods at Santana’s offer, the  _thank you_ on her lips so much less than enough. She thinks Santana might be falling in love with her too. She’s not sure she consciously knows it, she’s not sure when or if she’ll be able to say it out loud, but these sweet gestures of hers, leaving a coffee mug on the counter for her and a note when she leaves, sticking a new toothbrush beside her own in the bathroom, just for Brittany, taking her to the airport in the early morning hours, they scream it, louder than any words ever could.

They kiss goodbye Thursday morning in the foyer of Santana’s house. Santana’s hands are on Brittany’s cheeks, and Brittany swoons at the way she holds her there, letting the moments tick-tock past, until the horn of a black car startles them, and Brittany pecks Santana’s lips one last time, before they go to the car together. Even with the privacy divider, Santana is reserved, but she does squeeze Brittany’s hand when they arrive at the airport, she does smile, all teeth, her dark hair illuminated in the early morning light streaming through the rear window.

“Have a safe flight, call me when you can so I know you got there safely.” Santana murmurs, eyes always full of concern for Brittany’s well being. Her own form of  _I love you_ crisp and clear.

“I will. Have fun today.”

“Okay.“ Her smile is tight lipped, and her eyes are sad, but Santana doesn’t self-pity. She never has, she knows it won’t get her anywhere. "Have enough fun for both of us though, just in case.”

"I’ll try. I—” The words begin to form on Brittany’s lips before she remembers, and she shakes them away. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for dropping me off.”

When Brittany is safely inside the airport, the car pulls away, and Brittany touches her fingers to her lips, imagining Santana doing the same. Once she’s boarded her flight, she puts her headphones on, and digging through her bag, she realizes that the only tape in her possession is Stevie Wonder. It seems to fit her mood though, and she closes her eyes, his words lulling her into the sleep she’d missed out on in her night hours with Santana,  _But what it is, though old so new, to fill your heart like no three words could ever do._

In Mesa, everything is a flurry of excitement. Her parents are having their usual twenty friends over, serving food in the clay bowls they’d made in a pottery class, and conceding to silverware only because their younger daughter Cassidy rolls her eyes so many times. Brittany helps the best she can, but mostly, she smokes out back with her sister. and she gushes over this girl she met back in New York. She’s lucky, she knows that. She’s well aware that at this very moment, Santana doesn’t have the same luxury she has. Santana is probably being asked by her  _abuelita_ when she plans on marrying and giving her great grandchildren, and Santana probably has a twisted bramble in her stomach that might never come out. It worries Brittany, even from a thousand miles away, it worries Brittany, and though there’s little she can do,  _especially_ from Arizona, she can’t wait until later, when she can pick up the phone, and she can at least speak in her most calming voice for Santana.

Dinner is great. Her parents’ friends are always a trip. Hope and Rain regale Brittany and Cassidy with tales of their trip to Lesbos Island, and Bob and Judy talk about their nuclear weapons rally at Rocky Flats. Of course, they all want to know about the Pierce girls lives too, and Hope pulls Brittany into a hug when she tells her she’s seeing this  _amazing_ woman who she’s really falling for. Her parents are thrilled too, of course, though they already knew about Santana, and though they’re anxious to meet her, Brittany waves them off, unsure when or if that’ll happen.

It’s late when dessert is over, and Brittany, worried about the time difference, sneaks upstairs to her old bedroom, eager to make her phone call. Quickly, she changes into the new pajamas her mom left out on her bed, and she sprawls out, lifting the phone from the receiver and dialing the number she now knows by heart. When Santana answers, she sounds groggy, and though she feels bad for possibly waking her, Brittany can’t help but smile at her sleep soft voice.

“Hey, it’s me. Did I wake you?”

_Hi, Britt._  Santana rasps. _I’m awake, just watching_ The Tonight Show _. Robert Blake is on so…_

“You and your serious movies.” Brittany smiles, thinking of Santana, glass of wine in hand, wearing one of the floral pajama sets she’d seen in her drawer when she went to borrow a pair of underwear, relaxing on her couch.

_There’s some comedian up next. Jim Carrey. He’s debuting his act, apparently. In case you’re interested._

“Mom and Dad probably have it on downstairs, maybe I’ll go back down and check it out when I’m done talking to you.”

_How_ are _your parents? And your sister too? How was your day?_

“They’re all good. I wish I got to see them more…But everything was awesome. I totally feel like I’m gonna barf though, I ate way too much.” Brittany leans back on her bed, grinning at the sound of Santana’s laugh. “How was everything at your parents’?”

_It was…it was fine._  Even through the phone, Brittany can hear Santana doing that thing she does, brushing everything off, burying it deep, deep inside of her, in that place that makes everything get wound and tangled in the pit of her stomach.

“You can talk to me, you know, Santana.” Brittany tells her softly, and she swears that she can hear the smallest sharp intake of breath.

_I know…but I_ can’t.  _It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Turkey and pigeon peas and cornbread the food was great._

“Good, that’s the best part, right? The food?” She tries to hide the sadness in her voice at the way Santana sounds, and she pictures her, lip between her teeth, hands running through her hair.

_Yeah, totally. I won’t keep you, Britt, I know you’re on long distance. But I’m glad you got there safely, and I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Your flight gets in at noon tomorrow?_

“Yup, then right to work.” Brittany nods to herself. She wants to tell Santana the long distance is totally fine, her parents have a good plan, but it’s obvious she’s not in the mood to talk, and she doesn’t want to push her.

_Is it okay if I…if I send a car for you? I’ll be at work, but…_

“You don’t have to, Santana. I’m totally fine on the bus.”

_I know, but I want to._ Her voice is soft and sweet, and Brittany hears it again, that  _I love you_ in her gestures.  _If it’s okay._

“Thank you. I mean, I’ve always wanted someone in a chauffeur’s cap at the airport with one of those signs.” She laughs, trying to lighten the dark mood Santana seems to be in.

_I’ll see what I can do._

“I’m only kidding! Don’t go any more out of your way!”

_Nothing out of my way at all. I’m just sorry I can’t be there myself. I’ll see you this weekend though, right? If you want, come stay over after work tomorrow…Oh wait, you won’t have been home, never—_

“As long as you don’t mind waiting up, I’ll be there.” Brittany cuts off Santana’s adorable nerves. “The whole point of going home would be to shower and sleep, and I’d  _much_ rather do that with you.”

_Sounds good to me. Goodnight, Brittany. And, don’t forget about the comedian on Johnny Carson._

“I definitely won’t. Goodnight, Santana.” She adds a silent  _I miss you, I love you at the end,_ thinking, hoping that Santana is feeling the same, before she sets the phone back on the receiver, and leans back, looking out the window as she thinks of her girl in New York, twisty and alone.

True to word, Brittany finds the next day that Santana had really sent a capped chauffeur for her, and Brittany shakes her head, swooning a little at the sight of the man holding up a sign reading  _Pierce._ It’s that swooning that gets her through the night’s show, exhausted from a whirlwind two days of travel. But after, she gets to go to Santana, who’s already in her pajamas, the television on and a glass of wine on a coaster on the coffee table. The way she kisses Brittany, it makes her stomach bubble, and Brittany kisses her back just the same, unable to believe how much she’d missed her in just a day. She waves off Santana’s offers to heat up leftovers for her, in favor of curling up on the couch beside her, fingers soothing some of the jumpy nerves in Santana’s body until Brittany falls asleep, head in her lap.

Something is off about Santana, Brittany can tell. They go to breakfast on Saturday, and Santana mostly pushes around her food. She’s quiet, too quiet, and Brittany worries. She won’t push, she  _can’t_ push, but it’s concerning. She hates that she can’t help her, she hates that there are parts of Santana that she locks so tightly away. She hates that she’s falling so deeply in love with this woman, and yet, she just can’t help her sometimes.

Sunday and Monday are busy. Brittany doesn’t get to see Santana, she has a brunch with some important bank people for Christmas, and then Brittany has an extra rehearsal before Monday’s show, because  _Miss Berry_ wanted some choreography changed. But she looks forward to Tuesday, to take Santana to the falafel place on MacDougal that she loves, and then to see this dance documentary, a combination of their interests, to go home with her and kiss her everywhere and hope that her face looks less stormy and her muscles feel less tight. She looks forward to it, until the phone rings at two-o'clock, and she tosses aside her headphones when she hears Lauren screaming her name.

“It’s Richie Bitch.”

“Can you stop calling her that?” Brittany rolls her eyes, snatching away the phone and pressing it to her ear.

“Hurry up, Puckerman is supposed to call me.”

“You don’t own the phone, Lauren, and you’re  _always_ waiting for Puckerman to call you, even though you treat him like crap when he does.” She resists flicking Lauren’s arm to make her go away, and sighs when she doesn’t leave the room, and instead, sits down on the couch, staring at her on her phone call. “Hey, Santana!”

_Hi, Britt._ She sounds strange through the phone, and Brittany furrows her brow. _I’m really sorry…I’m going to have to cancel on you tonight._

“Oh…” Brittany tries not to sound entirely dejected, though it’s their date night, and that  _really_ sucks. “That’s…um…that’s okay. Work?”

_No…I….I’m actually not at work right now._

“Santana.” Her eyes widen, because Santana not at work in the middle of the day on a Tuesday is absolutely a cause for concern. “Is everything okay? Are you sure you’re still breathing?”

_Still breathing, yeah. I…I actually just got home from St. Vincent’s._

“What?” She nearly shrieks, and Lauren glowers at her. “Santana! Why?”

_I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I’ve been feeling shitty all weekend, and then I vomited last night, so…_

“So you went to the emergency room because you puked?” Brittany’s fairly certain Santana isn’t telling the full story, and she hears a sigh through the phone.

_Yeah, I mean, there was blood, so I figured I shouldn’t mess around with that._

“You  _vomited blood,_ and you’re still saying you’re  _fine?”_ The back of Brittany’s hand presses into her forehead, and she sighs audibly. There’s a difference, she wants to tell Santana, between avoiding self-pity and bring  _entirely ridiculous._ “Santana.”

_Really. I’m am, it’s just my ulcer, I’ve had it since college…but it’s bleeding. They gave me medicine, told me to take it easy, and not to drink for awhile. It’s not a big deal, I’m just not up for going out tonight, I’m sorry._

“Santana Lopez. Don’t you dare apologize to me, and stop telling me you’re fine, when you’ve got a bleeding sore inside of your body! I’m coming over.”

_You don’t have to—_

“I’m well aware I don’t have to. But I—I really care about you, and I  _know_ you, you probably grabbed paperwork off of your desk on the way home from the hospital and are sitting at your desk at home working on it.”

_I’m really fine, Brittany._ Santana tells her, though her voice says otherwise, and she doesn’t actually deny that she’s doing  _exactly_ what Brittany is sure she is. _I’m not going to be any fun tonight, I’m not going to ask you to come mope around with me._

“You’re being completely ridiculous. You’re not asking me anything. I’ll be there in a half hour.” Brittany hangs up the phone without waiting for a response, since the  _last_ thing she wants to do is further work Santana up further, and she sucks in a deep breath to level herself.

“Whatsa matter? She got a paper cut from counting her money.”

“Shut your fricking face, before I  _punch you in it,_ Lauren.” Brittany seethes, grabbing the keys to her bike and storming out of the apartment.

She’s vibrating the entire way uptown, barely feeling the cold air on her face as she weaves in and out of traffic. When she makes it to Santana’s block, she parks her bike, and she runs into the store on the corner, glad she actually remembered her wallet so that she can buy some damn ice cream. It’s all she can think to do to help, and with a pint of vanilla tucked into a brown paper bag, she reminds herself to breath again, before she approaches the townhouse and rings the doorbell. It takes her by surprise when a heavyset woman with smiling eyes answers the door, but then she remembers that it’s a weekday, and Santana has a housekeeper.

“Hi…um.” Brittany wrinkles her nose, tugging on the bottom of leather jacket. “I’m Santana’s… _friend_ ….Brittany. I think she knows I’m coming.”

“Hello, Brittany. I’m Millie, Millie Rose, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The woman smiles, and when Brittany extends her hand, she takes it between both of hers, big and warm and motherly, Brittany thinks. “C'mon in, she’s in her office. Maybe you’ll have better luck getting her to lie down them I’ve had. I’ve got a pot of creamy chicken soup on for her, might stick to her stomach a little, help her feel better.”

“I brought ice cream.” She lifts the package and shrugs her shoulders.

“I’ll get it in the freezer then for you, go on back there, she’s expecting you.”

Only once has Brittany been in Santana’s home office, a quick stop on the tour of her house, the one she’d finally gotten the second time she’d come over. It’s usually shut up behind a dark door, like Santana wants to keep the work away when Brittany is over, but today it’s open, and Santana sits in her swivel chair, lip between her teeth as she pours over the paperwork in front of her. She looks pale, Brittany notes, and she wears only leggings and a long t-shirt, her dark curls freed from their workday bun and piled up on top of her head. If she hadn’t just come from the hospital, Brittany would think it made a beautiful picture, her sitting there in her serious office, dressed so casually, but as it is, it just makes Brittany’s heart ache a little. She knows it hasn’t been long since they’ve been seeing each other, but still, she worries after this woman, she worries that her work and her knots and the constant pressure on her will put her in an early grave, something that makes Brittany feel physically ill.

“Hi, Santana.” Brittany says quietly, slowly shutting the heavy door behind her. She knows that in some homes in Santana’s neighborhood, the help is supposed to blend into the walls, and be entirely silent about the affairs of the home, but it doesn’t seem that way with Millie,  _Santana_ doesn’t seem like she’d treat her in such a way, and avoiding anything that would make Santana uncomfortable, Brittany wants to make sure they’re afforded some privacy. Hearing Brittany, Santana snaps her head up from her work, and she offers her a small, sheepish smile. “Millie let me in.”

“Crap. She was supposed to warn me…”

“She probably didn’t want you to have time to come up with an excuse as to why you left the hospital today, and are sitting at your desk doing work.”  

“There’s less than a month until Christmas…” She offers weakly, and Brittany just shakes her head, approaching the desk and perching tentatively on it. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t stop at the bank…I had some stuff here that I was working on over the weekend.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better at  _all,_ actually, Santana. I think your health is like,  _kinda_ way more important than that.” Her hand finds Santana’s and it rests gently a top it. Their eyes meet, and neither says a word for several moments, until Santana finally caps her pen and sets it down. “Thank you. Can I kiss you now?”

“Yeah, please.” Santana’s eyes flick rapidly over to the door, but there’s a sort of desperation in her voice. Gently, Brittany brings her hand through Santana’s hair, and her lips to Santana’s, kissing her softly, tenderly.

“You gorgeous idiot.” She laughs a little when their lips part, though she’s not really kidding at all. “I know you said on the phone you were fine….but be honest with me,  _please?”_

“I’m okay, really. The endoscopy sucked, and my stupid blood pressure is up, but I’m not dying.”

“You could have called me, Santana. You know I would have come…right?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it. You were at work when it happened, and then I was really out it it. Plus, when I went, I thought they were going to tell me I was overreacting.” She tells her, and then her eyes cast down, saddening. “And I knew they wouldn’t let you in the room anyway…it just…didn’t see, worth it to make you come.”

“I don’t care if you have a hangnail. If you go to the hospital,  _please_ call me. I’ll sit in the waiting room all night. This is what people do when they care about people.” Her voice raises a little, and she tries to rein it back in. The idea of Santana in the hospital terrifies her more than she could have imagined, and the intake of her breath is sharp.

“Is this another dating rule?” Santana tries to joke, but it falls flat, and Brittany shakes her head.

“No, it’s a  _human_ rule! You were all by yourself?”

“Carlos came up and went with me. I figured it wouldn’t disrupt his night of playing Atari with the classifieds in front of him like the jobs’ll find themselves.”

“I’m glad you weren’t alone.” Brittany’s voice is softer, and strokes Santana’s cheek again. “But…”

“Next time I’ll call you, okay?”

“I really, really hope there’s not a next time.” She sighs, running her hands up and down Santana’s arms, who for, she’s not really sure. “I knew you weren’t right on Saturday…”

“I just thought it was the combination of work and seeing my mother and all the wine I’ve consumed to deal with it. Of course, now the doctor says I can’t drink until this thing is healed…I don’t even know how I’ll keep from snapping.”

“Let me help.” Brittany brings her fingers back through Santana’s hair, massaging her scalp. “I’m good at relaxing you.”

“Britt…as tempting as that sounds, I just, I don’t think I’m feeling up to that right now.”

“Honey.” Her bottom lip pulls between her teeth at the endearment, so different than the  _babe_ she usually calls Santana, and so different than the flippant way she says it. Santana doesn’t comment, so Brittany just shakes away her own thoughts. “I was definitely not talking about sex, jeeze, you just got out of the hospital. I just want to rub your back, maybe give you some ice cream.”

Santana doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know what to say, Brittany thinks, so she takes her hand, black ink staining her fingers, always, and she just holds it for awhile, until Santana nods slowly. She’s not used to this, Brittany knows, having someone care for her. She’s tough and fiercely independent, but sometimes, Brittany is certain that she’s just a tiny little kitten trapped beneath the facade of a ferocious lion. A kitten that has needed to be a lion to survive. It pains her, really, to see Santana grit her teeth and tense her muscles and _struggle_ against the whole world, but maybe, just maybe, if she can give her a place where she can  _be_ a kitten, be  _herself,_ then she’ll relax, truly, she’ll sleep without headaches and grinding teeth, she’ll walk down the street without that fearsome scowl on her face, and she’ll go to work without her stomach ulcerating.

“I need to…I need to send Millie home.” Santana says softly, and Brittany nods, understanding what it takes to get her to fully let her guard down. “Her daughter is home from school for the week anyway, she’ll be grateful for it.”

“Do you want me to…?” Brittany isn’t sure what she’s asking, but Santana shakes her head, answering anyway.

“No, you can come with me. It’s okay.”

Following Santana into the living room, where Millie finishes folding the laundry, Brittany smiles as she watches Santana sit down beside her. She speaks to the woman with a certain softness, telling her to take the rest of the day paid, and tomorrow as well, telling her to give Marley (who Brittany can only assume is her daughter) her best, and thanking her for everything. Millie, in turn, is incredibly gracious, squeezing Santana’s hand, and the scolding her to rest her body and stay out of the office for the evening. For that, Brittany feels a surge of affection for the woman, and even more so when she turns to Brittany and gives  _her_ the instructions about the soup that’s still hot on the stove.

Once Millie puts the laundry away and lets herself out, locking the door behind her, it still takes a few moments for Santana to stop her fussing over things. She looks exhausted, mostly, she’s sure she didn’t sleep in the emergency room overnight. But also, Brittany thinks, it’s not just from that, but from  _everything,_ and when she sinks down on the couch, she drops her head back on the pillows, and the shuddering sigh that comes from her lips makes Brittany’s chest ache.

“What can I do?” She asks carefully. All Brittany wants is to touch her, to soothe her, but she waits, watching Santana squeeze her eyes shut, suck her lips into her mouth, hesitate, before she says a word.

“I think…I think I want to lie down.”

“Okay.” Brittany nods. “Do you want me to bring you some soup?”

“No. I’m not really hungry.” Santana shrugs, then lifts her head to look at Brittany. She’s getting shy about something, Brittany can tell, and though she wants to rub her thumb over the apple of her cheek, she takes a small hand in hers instead, squeezing it. “Do you think…maybe you can just…I don’t know….this sounds dumb.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“I just…can you come lay with me and hold me for a little while?” Her request is so soft and earnest, yet Brittany can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her.

“I thought you were going to ask me something totally weird.” Brittany is quick to speak, not wanting Santana to think she’s laughing  _at_ her. “Of course I can do that,”

Brittany follows a few steps behind as they go into Santana’s bedroom, and she lies on top of her made bed, pulling loose her hair so it cascades down on her soft pillowcase. Just for a moment, Brittany stares at her, big dark eyes watching her, before she gets up beside her, making a space in her arms for Santana to fit herself into. It’s strange even as she does. It’s different. Santana resting her head on her shoulder beneath the covers, naked after sex is one thing, but this, holding her in her arms, fully clothed, has this odd sense of vulnerability to it, a new familiarity, and somehow it’s infinitely more intimate. They’re silent for a long while, and Brittany just listens to Santana’s soft breaths, feels the way her body curls into her, the perfect fit. After awhile, she thinks Santana may have fallen asleep, until a loud sigh breaks the silence,

“I’m really sorry you had such a bad week.” Brittany whispers, unsure what there even is to say.

“I hate my mother.” It seems to come out of her completely unintentionally, like she can’t hold it in anymore, and Brittany squeezes her hip.

“I meant what I said on the phone the other night. You can talk to me about anything.”

“Yeah. I…I know. It just really sucks to talk about, especially to you. It really sucks to  _live_ it.” Brittany doesn’t say anything, she can almost hear Santana’s head spinning, and she gives her the time to find her words and to speak when she’s ready. “She started with me again on Thanksgiving. It takes everything in me not to fight with her on a  _good_ day, but…they had friends from my father’s office over for dessert. With their son.”

“Oh.” Brittany releases a breath, understanding, and she holds Santana a little closer.

“She’s just always pulling crap like this, and it’s just…all this stuff I’ve accomplished, it means  _nothing_ to her, because I don’t want to marry Marco Perez, or Joseph Martinez, or whoever the hell else she tries to hook me up with on every holiday. I…I paid for college on my own, because she didn’t even want me to  _go._ My mother is not a quiet lady. When I was seventeen, I heard her screaming at my father that I was going to turn into a  _dyke_ at that school…like…I just…she acts like…” Santana just shakes her head against Brittany, and hot tears trail down her cheeks. It’s the first time Brittany has ever seen her cry, and a lump forms in her own throat. “I just hate her. I hate going there, and I just can’t  _not.”_

A moment passes, then another, and then, clearly coming to the realization of what happened, of the fact that she spoke out loud of the things that simmer constantly inside of her, Santana rubs at her eyes and squirms, mortified by her moment of weakness. When she tries to move away though, Brittany doesn’t let go. She holds her tighter, she wants to make her feel all the things she’s not sure she can say. When she settles again, Brittany kisses the top of her head, and she lets her lips linger there, breathing in the scent of her everything.

“God, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m glad you did. I want you to be able to talk to me, to let it out, rather than stew in it all until you barf blood.”

“It took my twenty-nine years to get that far. I think I’m safe for awhile.” Santana laughs a little at herself, but Brittany  _can’t._ It’s not funny, it’s awful, and she hates that it happened at all. “I really though that’s why I didn’t feel right all weekend, like my body was just angry or something. Sometimes I just don’t get it. I bought a house when I was twenty-six, I worked my way up at the bank and I feel like I’ve accomplished so much, but because I don’t have some guy’s ring on my finger, and I’m never going to give her grandchildren, she’ll never think I’m good enough. And she doesn’t even…she can  _never_ know….”

“I know.” Brittany’s forehead crumples, and she wishes there was something, _anything_ she could do. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Santana sighs. “Thank you for coming here, and for holding me, and for letting me get snot all over your shirt.”

“Anytime, I’m happy to be your human snot rag.”

“Ew, Britt, gross.” Her nose wrinkles, but she laughs a little. “I mean it though. It means a lot.”

They lie for a long while, until Brittany gets up for the soup, insisting that Santana stay in bed while she gets it. Truthfully, she’s afraid if she gets up, she’ll end up back in the office, stewing in those numbers and other people’s money. When she comes back in the room, Santana’s sitting up in bed, charged into her pajamas with the phone cradled to her ear, twirling the cord with her forefinger. She smiles warmly at Brittany, but doesn’t stop talking, though she pats the bed beside her.

“No, I’m fine. Yeah—yeah—she’s here now.” She tells whoever is on the other end, making Brittany’s eyes widen a little. “You will—I don’t know when, weekends are really hard because she—no, I know there are mornings, I’ll talk to her—no, yeah, alright, I’ll call you tomorrow after I get home from work.  _Yes,_ I’m going to work, tell me you wouldn't—okay, I’m hanging up now, goodbye ‘Cedes.”

When Santana sets the phone back of the receiver by her bed, Brittany blinks her eyes rapidly, processing all that she’d heard. It wasn’t eavesdropping, obviously, but it feels weird to discuss someone else’s phone conversation when you’re not a part of it. Eventually though, her concern wins out, and she sets the bowl of soup down beside her on the table and pulls her legs beneath her.

“I thought the doctor said you’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting, that was just Mercedes, I left her a message earlier and—”

“I’m talking about tomorrow, Santana, you can’t just go back to work and pretend that doesn’t stress you out too.”

“Brittany, I have  _three weeks_ to get everything done for year end, I don’t have _time_ to just stay home and be sick in my bed.”

“You don’t  _have time_ to take care of your body?” Brittany feels an unwelcome frustration rise in her chest, and though she’s trying to avoid upsetting Santana, she’s being utterly ridiculous.

“I don’t have time to  _not_ go to work.” Santana’s voice rises a little, huffing as she speaks. “I missed half a day today—”

“Because you were  _in the hospital.”_

“Why are you trying to fight with me?” She snarls, and Brittany gets up off the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I really don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“Tell you what to do? Are you for real right now? Are you acting like thinking you shouldn’t go to work for  _one fricking day_ is such a bizarre-o idea?”

“No, you telling me what to do is what I have a problem with!”

“Okay, last I checked, I didn’t  _tell you_ to do anything. Excuse me for expressing some  _concern_ about you running your damn body to the ground. I’m sorry that I lo—” Brittany gasps, realizing what she almost said out loud, eyes widening, and the back of her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry that I care about you.”

“That’s not what you were going to say.” Santana’s voice loses its bite, and she stares at Brittany, her expression unreadable.

“I just—forget it.” She shakes her head. “Forget the whole thing. Do what you want, you’re obviously not going to listen to me.”

“Brittany.”

“What, Santana?”

“Can you sit down?” Her hand pats the bed again, while Brittany’s head spins. She’d had no intention of saying—or almost saying—that out loud, and she has no idea what the repercussions will be, she has no idea if she’ll upset Santana further, turn her stomach to more knots, of Santana will tell her to go, or… But she sits. She can’t not, not with the way Santana’s eyes look, softer, she thinks, but she can’t be certain. “Did you mean that? What you almost said?”

“It’s not a big deal, I’m not expecting you to—”

“Britt, please answer my question.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I meant it. I love you. But seriously, I’m not expecting you to—”

“I love you too.” Santana whispers, and Brittany’s heart races. Words and feelings, they’re hard for Santana, but  _God,_ she loves her too? She’d been so afraid of the reaction she’d get, and—and it’s not loving her that Santana is afraid of, apparently, not at all.

“You do?” She fights the urge to kiss Santana silly.

“Yeah.” It’s breathy, and a tiny smile curls on Santana’s mouth. “I have…I have no idea how to even  _handle_ this, I’ve been thinking about it since…since the night I met your friends, and we came back and you—But yeah, I love you, like, kind of a lot. I just can’t believe that you love me back.”

“How could I not, Santana Lopez? You’re pretty special.”

She blinks rapidly, in disbelief, Brittany thinks. This woman, this scared and confused woman, she’s something else entirely. She’s so wholly good, though she constantly second guesses herself. She’s driven, maybe because she has to be, but still, she has these dreams, and she just goes for them. She’s beautiful, her face, her body, of course, but it goes so much deeper than that. Her  _aura,_ Brittany’s mom would say. It shines bright, even in the storminess that too often comes across her features. And when she takes Brittany’s hand beneath a table, when their fingers brush over menus, when she grabs her by the front of her jacket and kisses her the moment the door closes behind them, she thinks it’ll be impossible not to fall in love with her over and over again.

“I’m really glad.” She presses a soft kiss to Brittany’s lips, and she doesn’t question the reasons why. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do.” Brittany twirls Santana’s loose hair with her finger, then kisses her again. “And I’d really like to keep you for a long time. Maybe forever.”

“Britt.”

“Please, babe? Please take better care of your body? Please just take  _one_ day to recover, even if you do work here? You get so tangled up and it can’t be good for you right now.”

“Okay.” Her concession comes quietly, unable to resist the softness of Brittany, unable to deny this girl she loves one simple wish. “But I have to go back on Thursday, Ben Israel will burn the place to the ground if I’m out longer than tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Brittany huffs a little, though as much as she wishes Santana would take the rest of the week to rest, just one day is more than she’d actually expected. “But until I leave for work tomorrow, I get to spend every minute being your totally sexy nursemaid, kay?”

“If you insist, Brittany Pierce.” 


	7. Couldn't Miss This One This Year

After Santana’s incident in the emergency room, and Brittany’s fussing concern over her, she’s been trying to take it easier.  _Trying_ being the operative word. Though she hadn’t told Brittany about the fact that they’d cauterized her ulcer to stop the bleeding—really, it would have done nothing but worry her more—it  _did_ really freak Santana out, and though she can’t control how work gets her, or how her mother gets her, or how her own expectations get her, probably worst of all, she  _is_ taking the medicine from the bottles she’s lined up on her bathroom counter like a geriatric, she’s not drinking, and though she’s supposed to stop drinking coffee completely, she’s managed to cut back significantly. She’s trying, going as far as giving up her other vice, the occasional cigar she smokes in her home office, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair whenever she does, just shutting out the world completely. She’s trying, but she’s certain that if she didn’t have Brittany and her magic relaxing fingers, Brittany and the sweet little ways she cares for her, without those other things that make her days more tolerable, she’d snap clear in half.

But she does have Brittany. She invites her over to decorate the tree that she’d ordered—she always orders one, she likes the idea of having something of the holiday that’s all her own—and they drink hot chocolate while they do. Brittany belts out that Waitresses song at the top of her lungs, and she makes Santana laughs from the very pit of her belly. Then Santana presses Brittany on her back beneath the tree, white lights twinkling and Tiffany ornaments shimmering above them as Santana shows Brittany how she loves her. Then Brittany lifts her, gasping, and carries her to bed, making her forget numbers and deadlines and the impending Christmas Eve dinner where her mother will inevitably list everyone she went to high school with and their _accomplishments._ She forgets it all, as Brittany touches her, kisses her, curls two fingers inside of her and makes her writhe. She forgets it all, because she loves this woman, and miraculously, this woman loves her too.

It’s the Saturday before Christmas when Santana really begins to panic. All though December, even with her chaos at work and her nights with Brittany, the wheels in her head have been spinning about what it is that you buy the woman who’s  _everything_ to you. She surreptitiously looks to the tellers at the bank, the women whose husbands and boyfriends meet them on Fridays, and she’s unsatisfied with the jewelry they wear. She’s not trying to be snobbish—though she’s sure Brittany’s friend Lauren would disagree—but she hates those bubble hearts they all wear, the hates the bracelets with fake looking gems in them. They all look the same. She doesn’t want to give Brittany something anyone can. There’s enough out there that she  _can’t_ give her, so she panics. She still doesn’t have a gift, and she obviously can’t give her  _nothing._

So once Brittany goes home after breakfast, Santana considers calling Mercedes for help. She decides against it, figuring she’s never  _met_ Brittany, and she’ll have to hear about  _that,_ which will turn into lunch, and that will waste her precious shopping time. So instead, she gets dressed and wraps her white wool coat around herself before hailing a cab downtown. She walks Fifth Avenue, feeling tingles in her chest at the corner Santas, the pine boughs draped between buildings, the trees in the windows. She’s never felt quite so giddy about Christmas, but this year… This year, she won’t come home from her own personal hell on Christmas Eve to an empty house. She won’t spend Christmas Day drinking a bottle of Cab and watching  _It’s a Wonderful Life,_ waiting for Mercedes to be done with her family so they can have their annual drink and bitch session. This year, she has Brittany, and this year, Christmas actually feels like something magical.

Her heels click against the floor as she walks into Cartier. Her palms sweat, and her neck feels hot. She’s buying jewelry for another woman. It could be her mother, or her sister, or her assistant, for all the salesman would know, but still, she clenches her fists in her coat pockets, trying to keep her fingers from trembling. She looks through the cases of watches, of jewelry, glittering under the bright overhead lights and standing out against the blood red backdrop. She waves off help, and she studies the diamonds. She’s no expert, but she owns expensive jewelry of her own, and the company’s reputation precedes them, so she’s unconcerned about the quality. She wants to buy Brittany something beautiful, but she also knows that Brittany isn’t flashy. She needs a happy medium, and so she continues on, manicured nails tapping the glass countertops, until she comes to the case that holds familiar bangles. She’s seen them before, adorning the wrists of her wealthy clientele, and as the word  _love_ still tingles through her body, she nods to herself, knowing it’s something Brittany would wear—and could, even with her leather jacket, even on her bike—knowing it’s something  _worthy_ of her.  

Though Santana works through things to say if the salesman who comes to help her asks who the gift is for— _a close friend_ is the best she can come up with, though she’s embarrassed at herself, because it’s so wrong, and she hates that—he never does. He simply accepts her credit card and lifts the gold bracelet from the case, showing Santana how the screws work, before nestling it into its red box and tucking that inside of a bag. She’s cautious, so cautious with her package as she steps onto the curb and hails a cab, clutching it to her chest until her front door locks behind her. It’s not about the money, though it’s certainly an expensive purchase, but it’s about luck. Losing the first gift she’s ever purchased for the girl she loves—or any girl, if she’s being completely truthful—seems like a bad omen, and even as she wraps the box in silver paper, tucking a note inside and spending twenty minutes in an effort to tie the perfect bow, she treats it almost reverently. It’s beautiful, she knows that for sure, but  _God,_ she just hopes, really hopes, that Brittany loves it.

The last few days before Christmas pass in a flurry. She has so many last minute things to do, both at work and at home. She checks, double checks, triple checks her account spreadsheets, she hands out envelopes with Christmas bonuses to her staff (and accepts one of her own from her higher-ups, money she decides to put in a separate account, though for what, she’s uncertain) she straightens her office and files away her paperwork. She fills an envelope with crisp hundred dollar bills for Millie, and sets it atop a purse wrapped for Marley and a big basket from Zabar’s. She feels like Ebenezer Scrooge at the end of the play this time of year. So many people see her brusque demeanor and her short temper, but she’s generous, overwhelmingly so, and she loves handing out her Christmas cards, a crisp  _SL_ embossed onto each. She barely sees Brittany, because she has extra shows in the lead up to a dark Christmas Day, but when Santana finally sends her staff home and walks the floor with security on December twenty-third, she’s ready, so ready, to have two days off.

They wake up together on Christmas Eve, Brittany having rung the doorbell to wake Santana from where she fell asleep on the couch waiting late the night before, but after sleeping late, they’re both in a hurry. Before she leaves for work though, Brittany pulls Santana close. She holds her in her arms a little longer than normal, she murmurs soft  _I love you’s_ into both her ears, and Santana knows, she’s trying to help her relax, fully aware that her afternoon won’t be a good one. But still, she feels better than she had on Thanksgiving. She knows that she’ll meet Brittany after work, and they’ll go back to her house together. She’ll relax once she’s back in her arms, she’ll kiss Brittany, and she’ll know that all her mother has to say doesn’t matter, not really, not when she’s got this perfect sort of girl, not when she gets to spend all of Christmas Day with her, and not when tomorrow evening, she’ll meet Mercedes, and two important parts of her life will finally converge.

Christmas dinner is its usual form of hell. Santana brings fruitcake from Eli’s, and her mother sucks her teeth at it. She spends most of the avoiding the woman, or rather, most of the women, since they seem to have a one track mind. Instead, she listens to her  _Tio_ Ignacio tell the story of his toe amputation—it turns her stomach far less than  _abuelita_ telling her she’s too skinny to ever find a man—she sits in the frigid air with her cousin Marita as she smokes her terrible Marlboro Reds, way too self-absorbed to pry in Santana’s business, she crosses her legs beneath her on the floor and plays Candyland with little Sofia and Elena, smiling at their excitement over Santa Claus, and though she still feels twisty just being in her parents’ home, it helps, just a little, to avoid the biggest thorn in her side, the woman who brought her into the world, and the woman who seems to despise her more with each passing year.

When dessert is finished, and gifts are exchanged, Santana excuses herself, her mother’s chilly hug causing pangs in her stomach. She’s called a car, and she’s glad for that, because the streets are void of cabs. The driver helps her bring her gifts inside, and she tucks them away in her office to deal with in a few days, before she gets back in his car, and they wait outside the theater. The patrons empty first, and though Santana knows it’ll be a little while before Brittany exits, but still, her heart thumps at the thought, so ready to be home and wrapped in her embrace, so ready to kiss her and love her. So ready to spend their first Christmas together. It takes less time than Santana expects, and she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face when she sees the woman she loves, clearly not even changed out of her leotard, but wearing lime green leg warmers and high top sneakers beneath her heavy winter coat.

“She’s here.” Santana murmurs to her driver, neck flushing in an effort to hide her excitement. Quickly, he steps out to open Santana’s door for her, and the moment Brittany catches sight of her, dark hair loose and curled, standing in her white coat, she lights up like a Christmas tree. “Hey, Britt.”

“Hi.” She continues to smile, and Santana lets her in the car first, before she slides in at her side.

Almost immediately, Brittany finds Santana’s hand on the seat between them, and she squeezes tight, an  _I missed you,_ an  _I love you,_ a  _how are you doing?_ all in one simple gesture. Santana laces their fingers together, and she grasps her tightly, her  _I missed you, I love you, it could be worse, but I’m glad I’m here now with you_ silently spoken in return. They ride the forty blocks just like that, silent, but saying more than most can in an entire conversation, and finally, Santana tips the man generously, and Brittany chirps a  _Merry Christmas,_ before they head inside.

As usual, Santana kisses Brittany just behind the door. She pulls out the tie from her hair, and  she twists her fingers in it, pulling her closer, closer, until almost no space remains between them. She feels Brittany’s leg wrap around her waist, and they continue to kiss until they’re breathless. It’s what Santana has been waiting for all day, it’s the one thing that seems to heel every crack and tear inside of her, it’s the thing she can’t believe she lived without for nearly three decades. Gently she rubs her nose with Brittany’s, and she feels that smile she loves, she feels fluttering fingers trail up and down her back, feels  _love,_ strong and sure.

“You look so pretty tonight.” Brittany tells her, bringing her hands around to play with the lapels of her coat. “I love this coat on you.”

“You really have a thing for me and  _white,_ don’t you?” Santana chuckles a little, while Brittany finds a loose tendril of her hair to curl around a long finger. Those hands, they’re never still, and something about that, it just intoxicates Santana.

“You just stand out against it, or something.” Brittany shrugs. “I think you’re hot always, but…”

“Maybe I’ll have to get a white pant suit.” She teases, Brittany swallowing visible.

“Don’t even kid about that. I might like, totally combust or something.”

“Then you’ll know how I felt that time you came into my office in  _just_ your leather jacket.”

“Didn’t want you working on a Sunday morning, and it was cold in here. I’m watching out for your health, if you remember.”

“My  _health,_ huh?” Santana presses her tongue between her teeth, and Brittany snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“You’re the one who reads the paper every morning, I’m one-hundred percent sure that someday you’ll read about the relaxability of sex on very important banker ladies.”

“I love you.” The way the words escape her lips so easily never fails to surprise her, but when Brittany makes up words, or scientific studies, or anything really, it makes Santana’s heart skip, and they come out almost on their own. “And scientific study or not, you do relax me, so, so much.”

“Good.” She pecks Santana’s lips and grins widely. “I’m accomplishing my mission. Now, I’d really like to get  _out_ of these clothes, and lay on the couch in nothing but t-shirt and the panties I think _you_ will really enjoy, while I  _finally_ see that Christmas Carol movie you want me to see _.”_

“You  _probably_ shouldn’t have told me about your panties, maybe we should postpone it until I’m not…distracted.” Santana squeezes the sensitive spot on her hip, making Brittany squirm and swat her hand away.

“Nope, we’re totally watching the movie, panties’ll still be there when it’s over.” Brittany laughs at the face Santana makes, and kisses her again. “And also, I love you too.”

Santana quickly changes into pajamas—though she’d originally felt weird about wearing her little sets while Brittany throws on whatever shirt she can find, that embarrassment went completely out the window when she found out that Brittany’s fixation with unbuttoning her goes far beyond just the blouses she wears beneath her suits—and she goes back into the living room to set up the new VCR. She’s fiddling with it, when she hears Brittany emerge from the bathroom, and when she cocks her head in that general direction, she swallows hard at the sight in front of her. She’s just  _Brittany,_ wearing her Frankie Say Relax shirt—one that now lives in a drawer  _here,_ and that sometimes, Santana ends up wearing when she gets up in the morning to make them breakfast, something that nearly  _always_ ends with her sprawled on her back with Brittany eating _her,_ breakfast long forgotten—and her hair piled on top of the head, but the way she sways her hips seductively as she walks, the way she  _knows_ she’s teasing Santana, it sucks all the moisture from her throat and sends it….elsewhere.

As Brittany settles herself on the couch, feet on the coffee table and knees intentionally bent, she doesn’t say a word, she just smirks to herself, and keeps her eyes on Santana as she fumbles to get the movie playing. When it’s finally on, the opening credits blaring through the house, Santana flicks the overhead lights off and the tree lights on, then takes her place at Brittany’s side. It becomes a game, of sorts, the teasing. Brittany can always tell when Santana doesn’t want to talk about her day, and truly, she’s just glad that she’s in a playful sort of mood, seeing Brittany, despite the fact that she’s sure she didn’t have the greatest of days. But the game is good for Santana. She squirms a little as Brittany’s hands comb through her hair for awhile, massaging her scalp, as she always does to relieve the tension of her day. She wiggles when she kisses her neck, suctioning her lips just enough to make Santana’s spine tingle, but Santana is resolute, keeping her eyes trained on the television. She’s going to make it through the movie, since Brittany demanded they watch it, she’s not going to let the hand that settles directly between her legs distract her from that

Her resolve lasts a long time, longer then either of them expected, really. It lasts until The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come appears, and Brittany has unbuttoned five of the seven buttons of Santana’s pajamas top—sneakily, at least if Santana wasn’t electrified by her every motion—when Santana decides screw the movie. Brittany had shifted into a position where she’s spooning Santana from behind, her hand occasionally squeezing Santana’s breast over pink silk, and her breath hot in the side of her face. Grabbing Brittany’s hand away, Santana rolls on top of her, and while Brittany immediately moves her hand to palm one of the cheeks of Santana’s ass, Santana kisses her slow and deep. She can’t get enough of her, panting breaths and tiny moans, and it doesn’t take long before she unceremoniously shoves her hand down the front of Brittany’s underwear. The wetness she’s met with their makes her groan, and figuring two can play at Brittany’s game, she slides just the tips through, before removing them completely, and bringing them to her lips.

“You haven’t even seen my panties yet.” Brittany smirks, though her eyes are dark, watching Santana suck on her fingers, and she fights the urge to turn her over and take her hard and fast. “And I bought them just for you.”

“I thought you wanted to watch the movie.” Santana husks, making Brittany shiver. “Can’t do both.”

“Screw the movie. There’s always next year.”

That’s all it takes for Santana to pull Brittany in for another deep kiss, curling their tongues so Brittany can taste herself, before pulling away and sliding her whole body downwards. She purposely takes her time pulling up Brittany’s shirt, feeling stomach muscles tighten beneath her fingertips , but when she finally does, she’s awarded with a glorious sight, Brittany covered in barely a scrap of red and green lace. Santana gasps, and she swears she’s drooling a little, until she hears Brittany’s melodious laughter, and fingers thread through dark hair.

“Unwrap your present, Santana, what are you waiting for.”

“I think I’ll take my time with this one.” She struggles to catch her breath, and she nips at the milky soft flesh of Brittany’s inner thigh and presses a kiss to the tiny ballet slippers on her hip. “The packaging is too pretty.”

“Fuck.” Brittany hisses, as Santana sucks damp fabric in her mouth, letting Brittany feel the tip of her tongue poke out. As hands wind tighter in her hair, Santana smirks against her clothed sex, and she casts her eyes upward, meeting crystal blue, pupils blown and wanting. It’s not typical of Santana to tease like this, but it seems to be turning Brittany on a  _lot_ more than she’d expected, and so, she continues tracing the tip of her tongue over soft lace, driving Brittany mad.

The way Brittany whines as Santana drags her nails down muscular thighs sends molten heat straight to the pit of Santana’s stomach. She inhales deeply, the raw scent of Brittany intoxicating her as she grows wetter, wetter with every trail of Santana’s tongue. These things, they’re the things she’s never allowed herself to enjoy with another woman, her scent, her taste, the way even through fabric, she can feel sensitive nerves jump against her lips, and she savors them every time, going down on Brittany constantly climbing higher on her list of favorite things.

“Babe.” Nails scratch at her scalp, desperate, and though Santana loves so very much the effect this teasing has on Brittany, she’s just as desperate to get her mouth on her, to feel the way her muscles clench, to hear her moans grow louder. “Fuck me.”

The way she demands it turns Santana on like nothing else, and she finds the finds the ribbon ties at her hipbones, nearly tearing them as she pulls them loose. Santana’s skin tingles as she reveals Brittany’s dripping center, and she shuffles on her stomach so she’s better positioned between her legs. The remaining buttons on her top come undone, but she doesn’t bother undressing them any further, she doesn’t think she  _can,_ really, she just needs to taste Brittany again, she just needs Brittany’s hands pulling her closely, she just needs to ravish Brittany on the very same couch where she’s been ravished so many times.

Bending Brittany’s right leg up against the back of the couch, she drapes the left one over she shoulder, and she hums into soft blonde hair, the vibrations driving Brittany crazy. She doesn’t tease any longer, Brittany is keening and moaning, thighs shaking against Santana’s cheeks. She licks through her, releasing her own moan, before her lips wrap around her clit, and her fingers press inside, twisting, curling, seeking out the spot that makes Brittany’s body thrash and her eyes roll back. This effect she has on her, it’s the hottest thing she’s even seen in her life, and she feels another jolt hit her as Brittany’s body rolls upwards and she cries out Santana’s name.

When Brittany comes, her thighs trap Santana’s head between them, and she doesn’t stop pleasuring her, her heart racing as Brittany comes again, softer this time. When legs fall limp against the couch, Brittany’s hands open and close, calling Santana up to her. She’s disheveled as she shimmies her body, hair everywhere and her top falling down one shoulder. Tracing her tongue over her bottom lip, she smiles as she stares at Brittany’s face, flushed and sweaty. Her body aches with arousal when she kisses Brittany, another moan escaping her lips at the taste of herself in Santana’s mouth, and she feels a strong thigh press between her legs. It feels so dirty, rutting against her, not even stopping to shed her pants, but having foregone underwear when she’d changed, the cool silk and hard pressure against her sex is deliciously maddening. Brittany’s hands find her ass, squeezing as she dictates her pace, and sharp teeth scrape her collarbone, bringing her over the edge embarrassingly quickly.

Her cheeks burn when she collapses onto Brittany’s chest, that dancer thigh still flexing, as Santana’s body tremors with aftershocks, and when she feels Brittany’s fingers play at the tie on her waist, she has to still them. She’s too sensitive, too  _everything,_ and she struggles to catch her breath when Brittany kisses her lips, the only thing illuminating them the fuzz of the television and the bright white of Christmas tree lights. It’s only the early hours of Christmas morning, and they’ve got so much to come, but already, Santana feels it, in her rapidly beating heart, in Brittany’s never still hands scratching at her back, in the occasional pulse that still thrums between her legs. Santana feels it, that this Christmas, it’s the best one she’s ever had, the best one, by a long shot.      

When she wakes in the morning, Santana blinks her eyes open, hardly remembering how she’d ended up in her bed the night before. Her disheveled pajamas are still on, but she feels Brittany’s arm draped over her and their legs tangled together. She’d fallen asleep on top of Brittany on the couch before, her face buried in Brittany’s neck and those fingers, still dancing up and down her back. Even then, in a position that would mess her back up if she’d stayed that way the whole night, she’d drifted into an easier sleep than she ever had after a holiday with her parents. Even after being woken up—by soft kisses on her neck, urging her to get up so they could turn off the lights and head to the bedroom—she fell right back into her slumber the moment her head hit the pillow. This girl, she’s good for her, even Santana can’t deny that, and as she snuggles back further into her, she feels a soft kiss on the back of her neck, one that makes her whole body fill with warmth.

“Morning.” Brittany’s voice is sleepy, and Santana bites her lip a little, loving that sound. Normally, Santana slips from bed, eager to brush her teeth, to wash her face, to rid herself of morning breath and dried sweat before she kisses Brittany, but not this morning. This morning, Christmas morning, the first holiday of her life where she doesn’t wake up alone, she turns in Brittany’s arms, meeting bright blue eyes. She smiles softly, tracing her finger over the sleep-crease in Brittany’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Brittany. What are we going to do with a whole day together? Think you’ll be sick of me by two o'clock.”

“Nah, I’ll know I only have a few hours until I meet your friend Mercedes, and she saves me from the crippling boredom that I’ll probably have from having to hang out with you for a  _whole_ day.” She teases. “Totally weird that we’ve never done this before though. Lame-o jobs keeping us from lounging around your house, naked or otherwise.”

“You’re really adorable.” Santana swoons a little, feeling like she can’t even keep her warmness inside. “Thank you for spending the day with me.”

“Psht, like I’d be anywhere else. Will you let me make you Christmas breakfast?”

“I love you, Brittany, but no I will not. Last week you almost burned down my house making popcorn.”

“Totally not my fault, the instructions were confusing.”

“Millie put a breakfast casserole in the freezer for me before she left for the week, I defrosted it yesterday. All I need to do it put it in the oven and make a pot of coffee.”

“Well, since I can’t resist Millie’s cooking, I  _guess_ that’s fine.” Brittany pokes her tongue through her lips, and Santana cups her cheek, pulling her in for a deep kiss. “ _If_ you let me make the coffee.”

“Promise no small fires?”

“Smoke doesn’t always equal fire.” She laughs. “But even I can manage coffee without a catastrophe.”

Feeling a little sticky from the night before, Santana changes from her pajamas into leggings and an oversized sweatshirt while Brittany uses the bathroom. Figuring she has a few minutes, she avoids even beginning to deal with her disheveled hair, and she slides open her top dresser drawer, revealing the silver wrapped box. Her pulse quickens when she picks it up, hoping that Brittany will like it, hoping she doesn’t think it’s too much—or worse, too little. Quickly pulling on warm socks, she pads out to the living room to nestle it beneath her tree, and when she sees a small rectangular box wrapped in shiny green paper, one that she doesn’t remember seeing there the night before, she feels her face split in a grin over this amazing girl.

Once she’s got the oven preheating for the casserole, resisting the urge to start the pot of coffee, she heads back into the bedroom. Just as she steps over the threshold, Brittany exits the bathroom, having slipped on nothing but panties and white socks under her shirt, and her hair pulled up in a side ponytail. She waggles her eyebrows at Santana, and then kisses her, mouth tasting of toothpaste, and skin smelling like Santana’s Kiehls face wash. Santana waves her into the living room, telling her that she kept her end of the bargain about the coffee, before closing the bathroom door behind her and trying to make herself look semi-human for breakfast.

With some of the tangles combed from her hair and her mouth fresh, Santana re-emerges to find Brittany at the table in the kitchen. She’d grabbed the paper from outside of the door, and she sits stirring sugar into her coffee. Santana’s mug sits beside the _Times,_ and once the casserole is in the oven, she takes her place, glancing at the headlines while Brittany’s feet wriggle up to nestle in her lap. Taking a sip of her coffee, she smiles over it at Brittany, before pulling out the Arts and Entertainment section and passing it across the table. Santana loves this, it’s something she’d never expected to care for, but sharing a paper, silently sipping coffee, with the feet of the girl she loves in her lap, it’s the most amazing kind of domesticity.

They’re quiet all through breakfast, just enjoying each other’s company and the beginning of their lazy day together, and once the dishes are washed, Santana refills their mugs so they can go into the living room. Once the tree lights are flicked on, and Brittany has the television tuned to CBS, they curl up beneath the big cashmere throw on the couch, Santana’s head resting on Brittany’s shoulder. For the first time, they’re airing Disney’s Christmas parade live, and Brittany, ever the lover of parades and performances, is captivated by it. Santana just watches  _her,_ mostly, enamored over the fact that this girl, with her leather jacket, her tattoos—the bird on her shoulder still Santana’s favorite, but the slippers on her hip a close second—and her cocky confidence is just captivated by dancing toy soldiers and Mickey Mouse dressed as Bob Crachit. When it’s done, and Brittany is dancing in her seat, Santana’s eyes drift back over to the tree. Christmas morning is almost over, and—

“So do I get to give you your present now?” Brittany chirps, seemingly reading her mind, and Santana just shakes her head a little. “No? Oh…okay, it’s just that my family always does gifts in the morning and…”

“No, no. I mean, yes. We can definitely do gifts now, I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Great minds think alike, duh.” She taps her temple and shimmies off the couch, sitting cross legged beneath the tree and grabbing the green box. Santana just stares at her—she thinks she needs to stop doing that, it’s seriously creepy, but her blonde hair in the twinkling lights…—until Brittany pats the space on the floor across from her, and she joins her there, knees brushing and Brittany thrusting the box into her hands. “Open it!”

As she slides her thumbnail along the tape to split it, Santana feels her pulse jump. Every single thing with Brittany is a huge deal, every single first with her is a first  _ever,_ barring, obviously, the one and only “boyfriend” she ever had, her senior year of high school, and sometimes— _all_ of the time—she just needs a second to compose herself. She can sense Brittany’s impatience as she carefully unwraps the box, and once it’s opened, she has to catch her breath at the heart dotted envelope reading  _Merry Christmas to my lady love!! Love forever, Brittany._

“I love being your lady love.” Santana admits, the apples of her cheeks warming at the admission.

“I love being yours too.” Brittany presses her palm to Santana’s cheek and leans in to kiss her. “Even if you’re the slowest gift opener ever.”

Teasing Brittany, Santana opens the envelope almost painfully slow, with Brittany’s fingers dancing on her knees. When she  _finally_ pulls the papers from inside, Brittany looks like she about to explode, and she raises her eyebrows excitedly as Santana reads the two gift certificates inside, one printed, and the other handwritten by Brittany.

“I know you can buy whatever you want for yourself, but I also know you won’t take yourself to the spa to freaking relax for a few hours. So I figured if I got you it, and promised dinner and a second much more _naked_ massage after…”

“I don’t think you know what it does to me, the way you want to take care of me.”

“You totally deserve it. I mean, I can’t cook, and I know your super particular about how your clothes are folded and how the cups go in the cabinet, so I’ll leave that to Millie, but I can deliver takeout and use my magic relaxification powers on you.”

“ _Your_ gift certificate was the best part.” Santana resists being a total weirdo and hugging to her chest,  _personalized dinner delivery and happy ending massage—with as many happy endings as you want (picture me winking when you read this)._

“I made it myself, obviously. I also made the other gift in the box…”

“There’s more? Britt.”

“Duh, why would I put just gift certificates in a box? Open the tissue paper!”

Santana doesn’t tease Brittany, not opening this one. She removes the tissue quickly, and she reveals a penny with a hole punched through the top of Abraham Lincoln’s head and a key ring threaded through. Though she knows full well that damaging federal currency is illegal, and she’d normally be the first to speak out against it, she can’t now. This…it’s too special, too  _Brittany,_ and she presses her thumb over the year,  _1983,_ and the heart embossed around it.

“Do you like it? Tina and Lauren’s craft of the week last week was money jewelry. I know that you wear diamonds and stuff, and that you probably shouldn’t wear a penny necklace to work, or people might get mad about you  _wearing_ money, since it’s totally illegal, or whatever, which doesn’t make sense to me, because why can’t you do what you want with your own money? But I wanted you have a reminder of me all the time when we’re not together, and your keys are always in your bag, so…” Brittany rambles, chewing a little at her thumbnail.

“It’s perfect, Brittany. Thank you.” Santana blinks quickly, not really wanting to cry over a key chain, and she leans in to kiss her again, feeling the way Brittany smiles into her mouth. “I love it so much.”

“Good, I’m really glad. I wasn’t sure, and I just didn’t know what to get you.”

“These are the best gifts I’ve ever gotten in my life.” She’s earnest in her words,  _nothing_ has ever meant so much as knowing someone cares about her as deeply as Brittany does, and she’ll cherish that all her life. “Just do me a favor? Tell Tina and Lauren to be careful? I don’t want any of you getting in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry, they moved on to macaroni pictures. I usually hang out and do art with them, but I think food art is gross. Plus, we had a rat once, so it seems like a bad idea all around.” Brittany furrows her brow, then shakes it off and brightens again. “Anyway, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Santana smiles affectionately at her. “I love hearing your crazy roommate stories. But do I get to give you my gift now?”

“Sure!” Brittany grins, eyeing the little box that Santana reaches for, and then accepting it from her hands.

“If you don’t like it, you can return it and get something else. Don’t feel like you have to wear it, or anything…I mean, it’s just—”

“Hey, how ‘bout I open it first?” Brittany cuts off her nervous insecurities and tears the paper open, eyes widening at the label on the box. She lifts the lid to reveal the note inside, carefully written in Santana’s remarkably neat left-handed print.

_Britt,_

_Thank you for loving me. Just a little something special for you on what I hope is the first of many Christmases that I get to call you mine._

_With all of my heart,_

_Santana._

“Definitely the first of many.” Brittany affirms, and Santana clenches her hands into fists, a futile attempt at calming her shaking nerves over Brittany opening the gift. She gasps a little when she opens the silk bag nestled in the box, and the gold bangle slips into her hand. “Santana! This is…it’s too much!”

“It’s not…”

“Are you  _insane?”_ She’s giggly as she shrieks the words, calming Santana infinitely. “You can’t just go buying me stuff like this! Charles bought this bracelet for  _Diana! Diana,_ Santana, as in the _princess!”_

“I know.” Her eyes turn to her lap as she bites back her smile. So what if maybe she remembered reading that in the style section awhile back? So what if it maybe, just a little bit inspired her purchase? No, she hasn’t been with Brittany longer than a few months, but still, she’s never felt like this before, she’s never even believed that she would  _ever_ feel like this. Brittany, she’s special. Brittany, she deserves special things. And Santana, she’ll be damned if she doesn’t give them to her. “And now I’m giving this one to you.”

“Santana.” Brittany’s voice softens, her eyes soften, her whole  _self_ softens as she continues fingering the bracelet, almost in awe. “You’re like…completely nutso, and you  _really_ didn’t have to buy me this, but  _thank you._ I love it, I love it a  _lot._ Not as much as I love  _you,_ but it’s up there. I know you’ve just given me  _this,_ but you also need to give me a kiss, like, right immediately.”

“I can do that.” She laughs, leaning back into Brittany, assuming it’s just a quick peck on the lips, and being taken by surprised when Brittany kisses her so hard that it takes her breath away and makes her head spin. “Can I…put it on you?”

“Please! I have no idea how to work these tiny screws.”

Brittany’s lips purse, and Santana pecks them again before plucking the tiny gold screwdriver from the box and the bracelet from her hands. Brittany’s attention is rapt as Santana opens it up, and slips it around a slim wrist, brushing the inside of it with gentle thumbs. Once it’s clasped, and Santana inspects her work, making sure it’s secure, Brittany holds out her arm and turns her wrist, inspecting how it looks. At the sight, Santana’s heart flutters again, and she touches her penny, the idea that each of them have a physical reminder of the other making her insides twist in the best possible way.

“It looks beautiful on you, Britt.”

“Doesn’t take much with  _this.”_ She gives a regal wave and a hair flip. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten too, San. Although, you could have given me a Whopper wrapper and I would have loved it, since it was from you.”

“I’ll remember that when your birthday comes around.”

For the whole day, they do a lot of nothing. They’d talked about seeing a movie—Brittany’s been obsessed with  _A Christmas Story,_ she and Artie saw it three times, and Santana figured, if Brittany wanted to, she’d go see it once more with her, so she could at last figure out what this  _shoot your eye out_ thing is all about—but instead, they watch the Yule Log on television, and then, when they switch to  _Miracle on 34th Street,_ Santana makes hot chocolate and lights a  _real_ Yule log in the fireplace. It isn’t until the pre-cooked roast from Zabar’s is warming in the oven that they finally get into the shower and put on real clothes to prepare for Mercedes’ late evening arrival.

Wanting a real Christmas dinner with Brittany, Santana sets the table with good china and real silver. It’s just the two of them, but still, it’s special, and somehow, Santana feels like they make their own little family, a family that won’t judge her, a family that has no expectations but that she love her. Brittany enjoys the meal immensely, and Santana is grateful for that. Brittany has a blood family, one that loves and accepts her, one that she  _enjoys_ spending the holidays with, and Santana just wanted to give her something else that she’ll enjoy. When they’re finished eating, Brittany washes the silver, and Santana the china—since Brittany is incredibly nervous that she’ll break it—and then sets the peach pie they’ll share with Mercedes on the table before retiring back to the living room.

“Um, Santana?” Brittany asks, eyes drifting over to the phone. “Do you, uh, mind if I use your phone to call home? I told Mom that I’d call her, and I’ve been having such a good time with you today that I kinda forgot.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, Britt. You never have to ask, phone’s totally open to you.” Her cheeks flush a little, embarrassed that she’d forgotten that Brittany would want to call them, and hadn’t offered sooner.

“Okay, neat, thanks. They’re kind of, I don’t know, they usually end up talking to Artie or Mike, or even Tina when I call home. They might want to talk to you, and phone-meet you, or whatever. But if you’re not comfortable with that, I can tell them you went out for milk or something.”

“Oh.” Santana chews at her bottom lip. She hadn’t expected that, really, though she knows Brittany’s parents know that she’s bisexual, and that she’s currently in a relationship with a woman, that she’s in a relationship with  _her._ “No, no, I don’t want to be rude, and they’re your parents. I’d like to say hello and wish them a Merry Christmas, if they want to talk to me.”

“You’re sure? I promise, I won’t be upset if you’re not okay with it.” She promises, and Santana strokes her cheek.

“I know you won’t, and you don’t even know how much I appreciate that. But it’s okay, I know that they…accept you, and won’t, I don’t know, find my job and try and get me fired or something. I don’t know when I’ll get to meet them for real, so I want to, definitely.”

“Okay!” Brittany’s whole face lights up, and it makes Santana feel so good about being able to do this. “I’ll call them right now, they probably haven’t started dinner yet.”

Brittany picks up the receiver on the end table, and dials the number on Santana’s clunky old rotary phone, one she prefers in her living room and bedroom, since the ones in both her office and home office are obviously analog, and have all kinds of buttons on them. Breathing deeply to steel her nerves—and she’s already got more than enough, knowing Brittany will meet her best friend in just a few hours—she watches Brittany fiddle with her bracelet as she speaks to her parents, gushing about her  _bracelet like Princess Di,_ as she tells them they just  _hung out at Santana’s all day,_ as she expresses how much she misses them.

“Yeah, yeah she’s right here Mom. Hold on, let me see if she can come to the phone.” Brittany looks to Santana, who swallows the lump in her throat and nods. “Okay, bye Mom. Bye Dad! Love you too! Merry Christmas!”

“Hello?” Santana takes the phone from Brittany and presses it to her ear, not sure what to expect. “Mr. and Mrs. Pierce?”

_Pierce, are your parents on the line? Someone’s looking for Mr. and Mrs. Pierce._

_Whit, my parents have been dead for over a decade! Did you smoke some bad MJ? The stuff in the bathroom cabinet’s kinda old. There’s a joint—_

_Shh! Quit talking about that—_

“Mom! Dad!” Brittany yells so they can hear it, while Santana squirms a little in her seat. “Knock it off! You’re on long distance and you’re making Santana feel weird!”

_Nothing to feel weird about, Santana, we were just, um, talking about my cousin…Mary Jane._

_You don’t have a cousin Mary Jane, and if you did, why would ya smoke her? Smoke her_ up, _maybe, depending on what side of the family she comes from…_

 _Stop being such a dimwit! One day the government’s going to be on the phone and you’re gonna get us busted._ Santana hears shuffling and static on the phone for a moment.  _It’s Brittany’s gal pal on the line—_

_Sarah?_

_Her name’s Santana, not Sarah! We talk about it every day!_

_Right! Hi Santana! Sorry if you were looking for my parents, they’re dead._

“No, I just—” Santana sputters, totally derailed by all of this. “I was talking about you, when I asked about Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.”

 _Honey._ Brittany’s mother’s voice lowers to a whisper.  _Are_ you  _smoking MJ?_

“What?” She gasps. “No, never. I mean…it's—”

“Mom, if you don’t stop talking to Santana about pot, I’m hanging up the phone!”

 _Thank you._ Santana mouths to her, really uncertain about what she should and shouldn’t say. “Excuse me for being rude, what would you like me to call you?”

 _Whitney and Pierce?_ She enunciates the words, like Santana is crazy for not assuming that.  _Or, if you don’t like that, you can call us by the names we went by on the commune, Sunshine and Twilight. Ah, makes me feel young again._

“I think Whitney and Pierce are just fine.” She looks to Brittany, who nods, rolling her eyes a little at the antics of her parents. “It’s nice to…meet you, sort of…and I hope you’re enjoying your Christmas.”

_Oh, we are! And thanks for taking care of our baby B for us! She never gets to come home for Christmas, we’d have to mortgage our house to pay for the flights, and she’s usually real homesick. Me and Pierce are glad she’s got you now.“_

"Oh.” Santana sees Brittany study her face, not hearing Whitney’s quiet words. “Well, I’m really glad I’ve got her too.”

_We’ll let you get back to it, then. Brittany tells us you’re a busy woman who never takes a day off. Slow down, relax and enjoy your life, you only get one of 'em._

“I’ll, uh, I’ll try. Merry Christmas Sunshine, merry Christmas Twilight.” Santana uses the strange names and Brittany just beams at her.

 _Well you just made my day. She’s a keeper, Brittany!_ Whitney shouts through the phone, getting a thumbs up she can’t see from her daughter.  _Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, and trust me, there ain’t a hell of a lot on that list._

The moment the phone is back in its cradle, Brittany is covering Santana’s face in kisses. She’d changed into slacks and a shimmery blouse for dessert with Mercedes, and Santana can tell, if Brittany had her way, they’d be on the floor already. But there’s always later, and truthfully, Santana’s still a little sore from the night before, and she’d rather wait until later, so her knees don’t buckle when her friend walks in the door—she’ll never hear the end of  _that,_  she knows. So instead, she quietly suggests that they walk over the the park, see the Christmas lights in the snow, and just breathe in a little of the early winter air.

Brittany jumps at the chance for that, zipping up the warm turquoise ski coat that her parents had sent in her Christmas box and sliding her feet into fur lined boots. She looks so different than her usual self, younger, Santana thinks, and she tugs the strings on her hood, pulling her in for a kiss behind the door, before they head outside. They walk side by side, gloved fingers brushing in front of darkened houses, and looks shared between the bustling ones. It’s a beautiful night, cold, the coldest Christmas ever, the paper said, but still, the kind where Santana wishes she could kiss Brittany in thick snowflakes under brightly colored lights with no one batting an eye. But even just this, being close to her, it’s enough for her, and on the edge of desolate Central Park, when Brittany hooks her pinky with Santana’s for only a moment, she knows, once again, that it’s enough for Brittany too.

So much snow wets through their clothes, that they change again, Brittany kissing melted flakes from Santana’s eyelashes, and smoothing the still frozen ones into her hair. She tugs out an outfit from the drawer Santana has given her, and Santana, she dresses more casual than Brittany has ever seen her in front of another person, in just jeans and a soft sweater. It’s a huge deal for her, Brittany meeting Mercedes, that she’d originally dressed up for the occasion, but now, standing with Brittany in patterned purple leggings and her off the shoulder top, her little bird peeking out, she changes her plan. She wants to relax, she wants to feel like she’s  _home,_ with the two most important people in her life, and more than anything, she doesn’t want this to be something uncomfortable.

At nine-fifteen, Brittany has put in Santana’s Bing Crosby record, and she’s taken the ice cream out of the freezer to go with the pie. Santana’s on the couch, legs curled beneath her, and though she feels Brittany’s eyes on her as she insists on getting everything ready for dessert, Santana doesn’t open hers. She can’t help what she pictures, she can’t help thinking that this day, this holiday, it’s some kind of insight into her future. She can’t help but see this happening over and over again, with  _her,_ with the woman she’s fallen in love with, and who loves her back. It feels good, it feels right, and she takes deep, even breaths, until she feels soft lips press against her own.

“You look so serene, like a Christmas angel.” Brittany murmurs, running her fingers through curly black hair.

“I think I’m far from an angel.” Santana shrugs, but Brittany straddles her lap and nuzzles her nose.

“You are to me.”

“You’re a smooth talker.”

“Maybe a little.” She sucks her teeth and flips her ponytail. “Totally worked on you though. I got in your pants  _and_ in your heart. Maximum achievement.”

“Were you at the arcade with Artie this week?” Santana chuckles a little, shaking her head at Brittany’s lingo.

“For like an hour, while our clothes were in the dryer.”

“You know you can do your laundry here, right?”

“Yeah, I do, but Millie already ends up washing my underwear sometimes by accident. I don’t want to leave my leotards in the dryer or something and make it weird…” Brittany chews her bottom lip, afraid of causing issue with someone who obviously cares so deeply about Santana.

“I’m  _pretty_ sure she’s noticed that when you’re still here when she gets here sometimes, there aren’t sheets to be changed on another bed.”

“And that’s…okay?”

“You’re not my dirty little secret, Brittany.” Santana toys with the bracelet on Brittany’s wrist, and feels the pulse jump beneath it. “There are too many places where I can’t be authentic with my love for you, but never in my own home. Millie’s a good lady, and a smart one too. I think she’s had suspicions about me for a long time, and if it wasn’t something I thought she’d be okay with, I wouldn’t have her working for me.”

“I just don’t want to contribute to putting all you work so hard for at risk.” She laces her fingers with Santana’s solidifying this partnership they have. “I never want to do that.”

“And it makes me love you all the more. But I think, Britt, you told me you wanted to keep me forever. I want that too. Keeping you forever might mean that maybe someday, you’ll want to move in here with me, or something. What am I gonna do, tell Millie I suddenly got a new roommate and all the other rooms are permanently closed so she shares my bed, and be careful because you might find her sleeping there naked if she had a long night and she sleeps in? Oh, and also, feel free to wash our underwear together?”

“Sounds romantic.” She teases a little, stroking Santana’s cheek with her thumb.

“Something like that. I worry about a lot of people—”

“You? Worry? No fake.”

“Shut up.” Santana laughs, flicking Brittany’s shoulder. “Millie isn’t someone I worry about. She treats everyone like her daughters…or…” She scowls a little, thinking of her own mother. “How people  _should_ treat their daughters. Her actual daughter Marley’s friend Unique, she was born a boy. She took her in, after her parents kicked her out. They don’t have a lot of money, and still…”

“She did?”

“Yeah, Marley told me about it. I try and take them out to nice dinners a few times a year as a thank you for all Millie does, and I felt awful, once I found out, that Unique was home alone and uninvited. She’s still in high school, so it’s rough for her…”

“I can’t imagine.” Brittany looks into Santana’s eyes, not just talking about Unique, but Santana too, with all her inner turmoil, with big parts of her world that she has to hide in. “She’s lucky then, to have Millie.”

“Yeah.” Santana catches the double meaning in Brittany’s words. “She really is. And I mean it, if you want to do your laundry here, or we can have Millie do it…”

“I appreciate the offer, Santana, I really do, but for now, I’m going to stick with my tradition with Artie. Maybe though, one day, if you get a roommate who sleeps naked in your bed, that’ll change.”

“Noted.” Santana gets butterflies at the thought, and at the way Brittany kisses her after, but before she had the opportunity to say something else, the doorbell rings. “There’s Mercedes.”

“Here, let me…” She trails off, using her thumb to wipe Santana’s smeared lipstick. “There, now you don’t look like you were making out with a hot girl all day today, only, like, seventy-five percent of it instead.”

“I love you. Are you ready to meet Mercedes?”

“Totally. One of the only humans you like that I haven’t met yet.”

“And as soon as Carlos gets back from South Beach, you’ll officially have met the entire list.”

As she stands up, Santana straightens her sweater and fixes her hair, watching Brittany wring her hands a little, before she stands up and moves around the books on the coffee table. It’s strange to see the confident Brittany jittery and nervous, but she  _is,_ and Santana knows that, despite her efforts to hide it. But she knows, there’s absolutely nothing for her to be nervous about when it comes to Mercedes.

They’d been roommates in college, and immediately, upon meeting, they’d had a territorial standoff, both of them wanting to take up more than their share of space, before realizing despite how completely different they were, they had more in common than they’d initially thought. Mercedes, the daughter of a dentist in Westport, who’d gone home to her family’s church every Sunday, and Santana, the daughter of a doctor in Port Washington, who’d rejected her family’s religion all together while she struggled with herself. There weren’t many women on their campus who looked like either of them, and their weren’t many women as driven as either of them either. They’d forged an alliance, watching each other’s backs, and their real friendship came months later, when they’d headed to a party together, and Mercedes had forgotten her keys. Ready to go home, she’d searched for Santana to borrow hers, and found her in the bathroom, trashed on tequila shots, hand down the front of some girl’s jeans.  

Mercedes had taken Santana back to the room that night, afraid to leave her alone in the state she was in, and she’d taken care of her while she emptied her stomach over and over again throughout the night. When Santana had woken up the next morning, pounding headache and makeup all over her pillow, with the realization of what had happened the night before, she’d gone into a complete panic, trying to pack all of her things, trying to move out, before Mercedes could confront her about what she’d been doing, and  _who_ she’d been doing it with. Of course, she wasn’t as quiet as she thought she was, and the moment Mercedes sat up in her bed, Santana had burst into apologetic tears. Mercedes Jones was the first person that Santana Lopez had come out to—the first of only two—and since that day, at nineteen years old, they’ve stop by each other through hookups (Santana’s), breakups (Mercedes’), graduations, job rejections, work related stress, family related stress, and anything else that got in their way. They’re closer than friends, they’re like sisters from different families, and Brittany meeting her, it seems like the most important thing she’s ever done.

“Wheezy!” Santana laughs, opening the door to Mercedes, who hugs her coat close against the cold wind.

“You’re the one who moved on up to the East Side, Satan.” She bustles past her into the warm entryway, opening the closest to put away her coat and shoes away—she  _did_ live with Santana, she knows just how particular she is—before giving her a real hug. “So merry Christmas and all that, where is she?”

“Are you drunk already?”

“Please, I just came from service.” She clicks her tongue and reaches into her bag, pulling out a bottle of merlot. “But I will be soon.”

“You insult me, bringing your own bottle.”

“Because you have terrible taste. And also, I know you’re not supposed to be drinking, so I’m not going to barge in and open your crap wine.”

“Not  _crap,_ thank you very much.” Santana rolls her eyes. “And I was going to open a bottle of white for Brittany anyway.”

“Well good, more of this for me. I’ve been waiting for the day I meet a Santana Lopez girl for ten years.”

“ _Please_ don’t tell her any embarrassing stories.”

“The first time you met Sam, you told him about the time I had a stomach virus and couldn’t miss my calc final and ended up crapping my pants. I’m pretty sure you’re owed one.”

“In fairness to me, you were almost an hour late to meet me that night, and I’d had lunch with my mother, so I was drunk by the time you got there and annoyed at you for making me wait. Besides that, Trouty was a Chippendales dancer who went by the name of White Chocolate and had lips like a baboons ass. He was a  _walking_  embarrassing story.” Santana shudders at the thought of Mercedes’ ex. “Nothing you could do would make you less fabulous then him.”

“That was a…weird sort of compliment.”

“Act like you don’t know that I love you. Just…please? I really care about her and I don’t want her to think I’m weird.”

“You  _are_ weird. But fine, I prayed every day you’d find someone who makes you happy, and I won’t contribute to messing that up. Lord knows you’re already fighting against yourself.”

Mercedes follows Santana into the living room, and they’re met with the sight of Brittany holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white. She’d already set the glasses on the table and poured a diet 7-Up into one for Santana. Seeing Mercedes, she sets the bottles on the table, and she wrings her hands nervously, then wipes them on her thighs, unsure what to do with them.

“Hi.” She reaches out her hand finally, her bracelet catching the light as she does. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Brittany, Brittany Pierce.”

“Hello, Brittany, Brittany Pierce, I’m Mercedes Jones.”

“No, um, my name isn’t Brittany Brittany.” Her cheeks flame, and Santana goes to her side, setting a hand on her lower back. Nervous Brittany is adorable, but she also doesn’t want her to feel like _both_ of them are staring at her. “It’s just Brittany.”

“Britt, you don’t have to be nervous around her, she crapped her pants in a classroom full of people once.”

“ _Really,_ Santana? Of  _all_ the stories you have about me,  _why_ is that your favorite?”

“It’s okay.” Brittany giggles, tension broken. “That totally happened to me once at an audition. I was so sick and didn’t want to miss it. I didn’t get the part, although, it was for  _The Pirates of Penzance,_ and personally, I thought it made it more realistic. They didn’t have bathrooms, obviously, on pirate ships, you can’t tell me people didn’t inhale bacteria and end up with explosive diarrhea.”

“Anyway.” Mercedes wrinkles her nose. “As  _great_  as sharing stories about feces with you has been…how about some wine, and a different subject?”

Knowing that Santana likes to pour, Brittany sits down on the couch and watches her expert hands uncork two bottles and fill crystal glasses. She takes her glass from Santana, and Mercedes toasts to love, health and Christmas, once Santana is seated at her side, right hand settled just above her knee. Around Mercedes, she’s  _different._ She’s far less reserved than she typically is, and when Brittany’s fingers creep closer, Santana takes her hand, squeezing it and running her thumb over the bones of her wrist. Mercedes tells them stories from her Christmas dinner, her Uncle Jeff finally proposing to his girlfriend of twenty-years, her brother and sister-in-law in law announcing their pregnancy, her sisters acceptance to medical school. It’s good, happy Christmas news, and they offer her congratulations, they share in her excitement, even Brittany, who’s never met any of them.  

Brittany leans all about Mercedes’ job, though she’s still not entirely sure how stocks work, since it seems like imaginary money to her, and Brittany makes her laugh, telling stories about Miss Rachel Barbra Berry and her insane antics. Santana, she sits back and listens, mostly, sipping her 7-Up and enjoying how well her best friend is getting along with the woman she loves. As Brittany gets more and more tipsy, she curls into Santana, touching her as she talks, and making Santana feel warm inside. She’d meant what she’d said earlier to Brittany about being authentic with their love within the four walls of her home, and here tonight, with Mercedes, she gets a sort of thrill, even just in front of someone who knows her so well.

“I love your bracelet, Brittany.” Mercedes notices the bangle on her wrist, when Brittany waves her arm, doing an impression of Lauren threatening her life for leaving hair in the shower drain. “Cartier?”

“Oh.” Brittany looks to Santana, suddenly shy. “It was a Christmas gift.”

“ _Wow.”_ Mercedes cocks an eyebrow at Santana, the girl who just a few months ago waved off her friend’s suggestion that she find someone to date, rather then simply sleep with, with a  _it just doesn’t work that way for me, 'Ce._ In response, she shrugs sheepishly, and scratches her collarbone. “So when you said you had it covered, you weren’t kidding.”

“It’s awesome, right?” Brittany beams, extending her hand toward Mercedes. “It’s the second best thing ever.”

“What’s the first?” Santana asks her, shocked the bracelet ranks that high up on Brittany’s list.

“Duh, you.”

With her ears burning, Santana presses a quick kiss to Brittany’s temple, and avoids making eye contact with Mercedes during her display of schmoopiness. It’s late, once Mercedes finishes her bottle of wine, and Santana serves dessert, and they’ve all sort of forgotten that tomorrow is Monday, and it’s back to work. Rather than attempting to hail a cab in Santana’s quiet neighborhood so late on Christmas night, Mercedes opts to call a car service to come for her, and as she begins to get ready to go, Brittany excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving the other two woman alone in the living room.

“So?” Santana looks to Mercedes hopefully. “What do you think?”

“I like her, she seems sweet, and she’s hilarious.”

“I hear the  _but_ in there, 'Cedes.” Santana crosses her arms over her chest with an indignant huff. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing, you just know I would hate to see you get hurt.”

“Mercedes Jones, what about her indicated to you that she’ll hurt me?”

“Nothing, really, I’m just saying, you fell for her really fast, you have a lot of money—” She starts, and Santana puts up her hand, cutting her off.

“It’s not about money. For once in my life, it’s not about money. She couldn’t care less about it. She takes me out for ten for a dollar dumplings on Canal Street, 'Ce, and we eat them in this probably really dangerous drug dealer park. She insists on me not bringing her to fancy dinners, and she’s such a jerk sometimes, purposely ordering the least expensive thing on the menu when I do. I mean like, really, she ordered a side of Brussels sprouts last week, until I ordered something else for her. She called me  _nutso_ when she opened her gift, and yelled at me because she loves the Royal Family and knows that Diana has the same one. She’s really, really different than me. I became a banker instead of a singer because it was the practical thing to do, she became a dancer because she loves it, and she’s so much happier than I am in my big stupid house, living with four other people in a two bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side. The girls that I’ve…always hooked up with, or whatever, they were impressed with the wine and the flowers and whatever else I bought, because I have absolutely zero game and that kept me from making a fool of myself. But Britt, she’s impressed by  _me._ She thinks it’s cute when I wear my grandma pajamas, and she lures me out of my office because she says work and money aren’t the most important things in the world. She rubs my temples when I’m getting a headache, and kisses me all over when I’ve had a crap day. She’s just, she’s not like that, okay? I get that you want to protect me, and you know I’d do the same for you, I  _did_ do the same for you, with ass lips, but I don’t need it, not from her. And I’ll tell you this right now, if I’m wrong, and she somehow takes my money and leaves, it’ll be my broken heart I’m crying about, not my empty wallet.”

“Damn, girl, I never thought I’d see the day…”

“Yeah, well, me neither. But I’m in love with her, like, really stupidly in love with her, and honestly, she’s probably  _way_ too good for me.”

“Don’t sell yourself so short, Santana. I’m not into ladies, but you’re a pretty nice catch yourself. But if she makes you this happy, don’t screw it up.”

“Trust me, I’m trying.” Santana laughs a little, pulling Mercedes in for a hug. “She’s great though, isn’t she?”

“You have got it  _so_ bad.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Yeah, she is, and I’d like to see if she’s as good of a dancer as you say she is. Dinner and her show after New Year’s Day? My treat, since you apparently spent a crap ton of money on her Christmas gift?”

“I think I can afford it.” She sucks her teeth. “But I’ll never turn down  _you_ treating. And thanks.”

“For what?”

“Just for being the person I can be myself in front of. It means a lot to me, and to Brittany too.”

“Well, you know I wish you didn’t have to have a short list, but I’ve only got two strikes against me in our business, and none in my family…”

“Yeah, well, you know my mother was sure to inform me of all mine yesterday. Apparently sixteen strikes and I’m still not out. But my uterus is getting musty, in case you wanted to know.”

“Are you okay?” Mercedes just shakes her head at the idea of Santana’s mother saying that.

“You know, coming back from there to her last night, I actually really am.”

“Good. Now I like her even more. She does seem like she’s really good for you. You’re a little less…high strung.”

“What a nice way of saying I’m acting like less of a raging bitch.” Santana snorts, just as Brittany comes back into the room, teetering a little in her tipsy state.

“Just don’t ask Ben Israel about that.” She teases Santana, having already heard her share of stories about Santana’s least favorite employee.

“Oh, girl, you’ve got five years worth of that moron’s idiocy to catch up on. I don’t know who hates who more.”

“It better be me, because he should be  _thanking_ me that he still has a job. But I’m not talking work, it’s  _Christmas.”_

“Mercedes Jones, and  _you_ are?” Mercedes extends her hand in mock introduction, and Santana swats it away when the taxi driver blows the horn outside.

“Go, before this guy wakes up the Cohen’s kids, and I never hear the end of it.”

“Goodnight, Mercedes!” Brittany chirps, and the wine makes her giggle inexplicably as she says it. “It was  _so_ nice finally meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too, Brittany, Brittany Pierce, and I’m sure it’s just the first of many meetings.”

“I hope so.” She sucks her lips into her mouth, then smiles softly at Santana.

“Merry Christmas, ladies, Santana, I’ll call you about that dinner.”

They stand at the door, watching as Mercedes gets into the backseat of the back car. Once the car pulls away, Santana closes the door, triple locking it, and tugging to make sure it’s secure, before she turns to Brittany. Her socked feet twist and drag on the floor, always dancing, and her grin at Santana is wide. She’d only had two glasses of wine, but given the fact that she doesn’t drink it often, she’s actually more drunk than Santana had realized, something she finds absolutely adorable.

“You seemed way serious when I came back from the bathroom. Is everything okay? Does Mercedes not like me? Was it the poop story? Because that was really gross, and I totally shouldn’t have told it.”

“No, Britt, hey.” Santana stills her hands that grasp at open air, and she pulls her close. “That’s just what we do, we watch out for each other, and she wants to make sure my heart is safe, because I’ve never let anyone have it before. She actually  _really_ likes you, and wants to see your show.”

“No way! Really? I’ll totally see if I can get free tickets—”

“Don’t worry about that, Mercedes can afford to take me to a show for once in her life.”

“Oh.” Brittany’s tongue pokes through her teeth. “ _You’re_ coming too?”

“Do you not want me to?” She’s taken aback by Brittany’s tone.

“No, no, no! Not at all! Of course I want you to come again! You just can’t tell me when, okay? Because if I know you’re in the audience, I’m going to be  _so_ nervous, and Rachel always knows, and will completely flip out.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you. I didn’t know you were superstitious like that.”

“Totally. I’m a dancer, it’s like, the rule or something.”

“Good to know.” Santana smiles, burying her fingers in Brittany’s hair and pulling her close to kiss her. “I love you, Britt, and I loved this Christmas with you, more than I think you can ever understand.”

“I love you too, babe, and you can make sure you tell Mercedes that I’m going to protect your heart too, because I never want to be the one who breaks it, I want to be the one who heals all those sad cracks the word put in it.” She nuzzles Santana’s nose, and looks into those deep, shining dark eyes. “Christmas promise, the kind that can never be broken.”


	8. I Need You To Love Me, I Need You Today

January brings difficulties for Brittany at work. After a particularly brutal critic’s review of the show, calling it  _a glorified high school production,_ Rachel Berry goes on a rampage. In addition to grueling additional hours of rehearsal—more so to train the constant turnstile of replacement dancers than anything—Rachel is particularly aware of any singular misstep, paranoid that any mistake could mean investors beginning to pull out, something she’s probably not entirely wrong about, if Brittany thinks hard enough about it.

There’s an odd sort of silent terror among the dance troupe. No one speaks about it, for fear of being overheard and canned immediately, but it’s there, buzzing through each and every one of them, the moment they step into the theater each day. Brittany and Sugar stick together, though neither of them really believe there’s any sort of safety in numbers, and even the usually flippant Sugar Motta is subdued. They all need these jobs—even Sugar, with all her talk of her father’s money and connection—to make rent, to eat, and far more terrifying, because they know that it could be a black mark against them for any future jobs. They know the show is failing, the attendance falls every night, but that doesn’t mean Rachel isn’t a star, that doesn’t mean that going up against her can’t have dire, possibly career ending consequences.

So Brittany’s exhausted. All of her energy is spent dancing and holding her tongue, and late at night, on the ones where she can muster the strength to get up to Santana’s, she crawls almost immediately into bed, just wanting to kiss her, just wanting to be held. Though she doesn’t say much to Santana, since she’s such a worrier, and she already has all these beginning of the year knots in her stomach—Brittany’s fairly certain she has knots for each and every time of year, really—Santana’s no fool. She knows something’s not right there, so she kisses the bags beneath Brittany’s eyes, she massages the groan of tired limbs, she offers her silent support, because that’s how they operate. They speak between words, they love without question.

At the end of the month, Santana surprises her outside of the stage door. True to her word, she didn’t tell her when she and Mercedes would come, and Brittany is beyond grateful for that, especially now. They’d waited for her for dinner, and though Brittany feels like she could collapse with exhaustion right there on the sidewalk, though Santana promises it’s totally her choice, she takes the bundle of lilies from her Santana’s arms, and she smiles through dinner, as the two women shower her with praise for her performance. She’s tired and she sort of hates her job these days, but with Santana’s hand beneath the table, stroking up her Lycra clad thigh, with Mercedes, a very wealthy and completely unbiased onlooker telling her that she was stunning, Brittany feels like it really is okay.

It happens in February. It’s a bitter-clear kind of night. It had snowed the day before, but the streets are plowed, the clouds are gone, leaving only white piles and black ice in the wake. It’s twenty-one minutes after five, and Sugar hasn’t come in yet. The show doesn’t start until seven, but it doesn’t matter. Five-oh-one is late, five-twenty is a death sentence. With her leg up on the bar, chin to her knee, and her eyes on the clock over the door in the dressing room, Brittany feels dread in the pit of her stomach. She looks to David Martinez, the manager of the company, clipboard in his hand, and she sees him worry his lip between his teeth. Sugar is one of their best dancers. Sugar is volatile, and uses every bit of self-control not to fight with Rachel Berry. And Sugar is way too late for her own well being, or Brittany’s liking at all.

There’s a flurry of activity at five-thirty-one. Brittany’s on the floor in a split, her forehead against dark wood, when she jerks it up quickly. David is flustered, and behind him, there’s Sugar, blood all over her face, holding her arm against her chest. Brittany gets to her feet instantly, rushing to her friend’s side,

“Holy hell, Shug, what  _happened?”_ Brittany inspects her head, where it’s seemingly just a deep surface wound, though she’s no doctor.

“I got hit by a freaking car.” She shrieks. “Freaking yuppie bastard in his Cadillac banged a right on red, right into me. He tried to call an ambulance, but I don’t have time to go to the goddamn hospital. I’m  _here._ I still made it here!”

“Chill out, Sugar. You’re bleeding all over the place, and what’s the matter with your arm?”

“Doesn’t matter, Britt just help me get the blood out of my hair and into my costume before—”

“What’s the commotion in here?” Rachel’s shrill voice overpowers Sugar’s, and the injured girl visibly shrinks. “What is  _this?_ Number six, does my time mean nothing to you?”

“Miss Berry, she’s just changing in to her costume. The girl had an accident on her way here, but she’ll be ready to go on in five.” David interjects, stepping between Rachel and the girls, Brittany pulling back Sugar’s hair to get a closer look at the gash there.

“Not like  _that_ she’s not. Send her home, I won’t have this on my stage, she’s done. Find me a new dancer number six.”

“Miss Berry—”

“Mr. Martinez, I don’t believe I need to repeat myself. Part of a dancer’s job is to look a certain way, just as my job is to sing a certain way. If by some terrible misfortune, I fell and broke  _my_ talent, do you think investors would still be interested in backing my productions?”

“But I can still—” Sugar starts, pleading, desperate, but Rachel puts her hand out, cutting her off.

“Take a look at yourself in the mirror. You should have been more careful. This isn’t a charity service, and at this time, you’re no longer up to par. I can’t have a bloody dancer making a mockery of my life’s work.”

“David! Do something.” Brittany ceases holding her tongue as Rachel turns away, but he just shakes his head sadly. Sugar is one of the best dancers in the company, but there’s nothing at all he can do to save her job. Rachel is a desperate woman, seeing this particular show, her heart’s pride down to the very last note, bomb, and she’ll take no prisoners as she acts out of the madness at the very really likelihood that it’s about to be deemed a total flop. “Miss Berry! Please! You can’t do this to her! She needs to get her head stitched up, and her arm looked at, but she can do it after. It’ll take us three minutes to wash away the blood, and her costume has a hat! She’ll be fine! Don’t fire her, please!”

“Brittany,  _don’t.”_ Sugar hisses, fingernails digging into her arm.

“It’s not right, Sugar! You came to work after you got hit by a car, and you’re bleeding. You didn’t do anything wrong! She can’t just fire you!”

“Excuse me.” Rachel’s body whips furiously around, and she rises on her tiptoes, arms crossed over her chest, staring down Brittany. “Number eleven, is this  _your_ show?”

“I—uh—no, Miss Berry.” Brittany’s eyes widen as she sees the fury in Rachel’s.

“That’s right. It’s not. It’s  _mine,_ everything in this theater is mine. And you see, you’re just a dime a dozen dancer.” Something terrifying flickers through Rachel’s eyes, and Brittany shivers. “I’ve made it quite clear the need for everyone to be a team player right now, and to put the needs of the show first. You don’t seem to be doing that, Eleven.”

“I’m always a team player,  _Rachel.”_ Brittany isn’t sure if she’s pleading or fuming, but really, she doesn’t think it matters either way. She’s already shot herself straight in the foot but standing up for Sugar, and really, her basic moral code. “And so is Sugar! We’re both early every day, we’re the first to nail the new choreography even though it changes twice a month, neither of us has ever messed anything up!”

“Britt, stop, it’s not worth it. Just go out there,  _please?”_ Sugar begs her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Martinez, find a new—”

“No!” Sugar wails, and the other dancers are silent as they busy themselves, trying to avoid the crossfire of this fight. “She’s sorry! And she needs this job!”

“She should have thought about that, shouldn’t she have.” Rachel flicks her hair. “I’m done wasting my angelic voice on this conversation. Clear out your things, security will be here to escort you out in five minutes. Mr. Martinez, I trust you’ll handle this from here? The show must go on.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Berry.”

David doesn’t bother with apologies, once the other dancers have exited the dressing room. He knows they’re not enough, they’re not even close to enough. He knows Sugar didn’t deserve to be fired, and he knows that Brittany did what  _he_ should have done to protect her. But it’s a dog eat dog world, and the dance company has no contractual protection against the whims of Rachel Berry—something they  _all_ knew going into this show—so if David protected every dancer that had been wrongfully dismissed, he’d have been out of a job months ago. Brittany knows she made a really stupid move, one she’s in too much shock to fully fathom, but she also knows, deep in her heart, that she couldn’t have lived with herself if she hadn’t.

They make it out to the street before security comes, Brittany was a small duffle bag over her shoulder, and Sugar with a folded over paper grocery bag. Brittany had stripped from her costume in record time, and in just her leotard and leggings, she’s more grateful than ever for the warm coat her parents had given her, and the new leopard print leg warmers that Santana had slipped into  _her_ drawer—she saw them and thought of Brittany, she’d said—to combat the early February cold. Sugar’s still bleeding, but before she can decide what it is she should do, Sugar slaps her hard on the shoulder.

“You’re a freaking  _idiot,_ Brittany. What’s  _wrong_ with you? You shouldn’t have done that!”

“It wasn’t fair! How could I sit there and watch that without doing something. You’re my friend, Shug.”

“And that’s showbiz, kid.” She does her best Billy Flynn impression, but Brittany can’t even manage a bitter laugh. “You need that job, Brittany, what are you gonna do? Go back to freaking Arizona?”

“No, no.” Brittany shakes her head, but her panic at the thought quickly seeps into her every cell, threatening to paralyze her. “I'll—I’ll figure something out.”

“I’d tell you to go back in and beg—”

“—but we both know there’s no point.” Brittany finishes. “You really need to get your head checked, and your arm too.”

“Quit worrying about me, Daddy’ll take me in the morning. I’m not sitting in the ER at night with the junkies and bums.”

“Be nice, Sugar.” She smiles weakly.

“Are you going uptown or downtown?” Sugar asks, and for just a moment, Brittany is stupefied. She thinks of going home, where Artie and Mike will buy her ice cream, where Tina will tell her self-deprecating stories of how it could be worse, where Lauren will roll her eyes, but actually show a small sliver of compassion. And then she thinks of Santana, and her cheeks flame. She got fired from her job. Her roommates, they’ve been there, the product of their lifestyles, but Santana, she’s  _Santana._ She’s got forty-six contingency plans in place. She doesn’t know a thing about toeing a line. But she’s  _Santana,_ and Brittany knows, whether she can relate or not, that’s whose arms she needs around her tonight.

“Uptown.”

“Share a cab?” Sugar asks, as Brittany mentally calculates how many dollar bills remain in her wallet. “Daddy’ll come out and pay when I get home, don’t worry.”

“Sugar—”

“Don’t  _Sugar_ me. You’re an idiot, but you’re a good friend. Least I can do is drop you at your girlfriend’s on my way home.”

“Okay.” She relents,  _really_ just wanting see Santana, really hoping it’ll do something about this strange numbness that’s overcome her. “Okay, thanks.”

Even the usually chatty Sugar is quiet on the ride home, while the driver puffs a fat cigar out his window, and the icy air feels like it’s forming ice crystals on Brittany’s eyelashes. It feels surreal, all of it, like Brittany’s going to wake up in Santana’s bed, and it’ll be Friday morning again. That she’ll feel the brush on lips against her own, before she turns over and gets a little more sleep after Santana leaves for work. That she’ll smile sheepishly when Millie comes in as she’s eating Life cereal over the kitchen sink, and slink out to go home to get ready for work. That she’ll call Sugar and tell her to look both ways before she crosses the street. That this won’t have happened at all. But as Sugar tells her she’ll call her and let her know what the doctor says, as she slings her duffel back back over her shoulder and treads carefully on the thin layer ice coating Santana’s front steps, that possibility seems less and less likely.

“Brittany.” Santana’s brow furrows as she opens the door and finds Brittany standing there. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you alright?”

“No.” It’s all she can manage as Santana ushers her inside. In the foyer, her bag falls from her shoulder and drops to the floor, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

“Okay, okay.” Santana wrings her hands nervously, unsure what to do with him. “Britt, take your coat off and come inside. I’ll turn up the heat, you look like you’re freezing,”

“Yeah. Um. Okay. Yeah.” She can do nothing but nod and fumble with the zipper on her coat as Santana fusses about the house, playing with the thermostat, turning on a pot for tea, giving Brittany a moment’s space, because that’s how their relationship works.

By the time Brittany manages to untie her sneakers and get them off her feet, flexing her cold toes to make sure she can feel them, she hears the whistle of the teapot blow, and Santana appears back in the living room, carrying Brittany’s favorite mug. She sets it down on the table, and Brittany smells the apple cinnamon—her favorite, that Santana started adding to the shopping list Millie takes every Tuesday—as Santana perches on the edge of the couch. She can barely meet Santana’s eyes as she sits down beside her, but she can tell she’s beyond worried, one hand gripping both the hem of the button down she still wears from work and the fabric of the grey sweatpants she’s changed into, her forehead creased deeply, and her lip between her teeth, biting down hard.

“I got fired.” She finally gets out, accompanied by a hiccuping sob, and all the icy numbness inside of her breaks as big tears roll down her cheeks. Her hands fly to her face, and she drops her head into them, not sure what else to do. “Rachel fired me.”

“What?” Brittany hears a flickering anger in Santana’s voice, one that quickly subsides into honey-warmth as she feels two small hands take the ones that cover her eyes, slowly lowering them. “Oh, baby, come here.”

Without pause, Santana scoots closer to Brittany and engulfs her hunched form in her embrace. It’s rare she uses endearments, and Brittany notices the tenderness of it, and lets herself be held as she cries more tears than she thinks she’s ever imagined possible. All her stoic resolve in the theater, on the sidewalk, in the cab with Sugar, it crumbles as she breathes in the lingering scent of Chanel and honey, as she hears soothing whispers in her ear, as she feels her Santana, squeezing her tighter, tighter. Despite Brittany’s perpetual holding of her head high, despite her dancing her ass off and barely paying her bills, despite the sometimes cocky attitude in a leather jacket on a motorcycle, she’s not unaffected, and this right here, the tight embrace of the woman who loves her so, it’s her safe place, and there, she cries for the better part of an hour, until she thinks all her tears have run dry.

“I ruined your shirt.” Brittany hiccups, once she finally lifts her head from wet, stage makeup stained fabric.

“I don’t give a damn about my shirt, Britt. I only care about  _you.”_

“I messed up  _so_ bad. God, I’m such an idiot. I just flushed all my dreams down the freaking toilet because I had to be a hero.”

“What happened?” Brittany hears the caution as Santana asks, but her hands take Brittany’s back in a tight hold.

“Sugar got hit by a car.” Dark eyes widen at her words, but she shakes her head slowly. “Shes fine, I think. She dropped me off here in a cab, she didn’t want to go to the hospital or anything, even though she was bleeding, and I think she busted up her arm. But she came to work, because Rachel is a freaking psychopath, and she was scared she was going to get fired. But she fired her _anyway.”_

“And you defended her.” Santana puts the pieces together, and Brittany nods.

“I knew what was going to happen. I  _knew_ it, but I couldn’t just—she’s a  _really_ good friend to me, and I hate when people do things that aren’t  _right._ David told me to help her get in her costume, and she was going to go on stage like that, but then Rachel came in, and all hell broke loose _._ What kind of person would I be if I stood there and let Rachel fire her because she was covered in blood? And I  _know,_ I know, Santana, that you’re going to tell me I should have watched my own ass—”

“Brittany, I'm—”

“I  _know_ I should have, okay? I know that this was really, really stupid, because I have rent, and now Rachel will probably make sure I get blacklisted, and even Sugar said I was an idiot for doing that, but—”

“Brittany.” Santana’s voice is firm, and Brittany snaps her head up. “I would never,  _ever_ kick you when you’re down, and I would never,  _ever_ disagree with you for standing up for what you believe is right. It’s one of the things I love the most about you, you’re so  _good,_ so wholly good, in a way that I could only wish to be.”

“You don’t think I’m an idiot? You’re not mad?”

“Of course I don’t. And yeah, I’m  _really_ mad, but not at you. Britt, you don’t have a contract that protects you from this? How can she just fire  _either_ of you without just cause?”

“It’s  _in_ my contract. I don’t remember the words, but Robbie looked at it for me, since he knows about all that business kind of stuff, and it pretty much says I can be released from the contract by them without notice. He  _warned_ me, but it was really good job, a  _Rachel Berry_ production, and I’d been auditioning for almost a  _year,_ so I didn’t even care, I figured it would be fine.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Britt.”

“Why are you being so  _nice_ to me about this?” Brittany purses her lips. “You plan  _everything._ You know what you’re going to eat for breakfast three weeks from now. You’re so  _careful,_ and this was stupid and careless, this whole thing!”

“Hey,  _stop._ Stop with the stupid thing right now, Brittany Pierce. I  _love_ you, and we’re going to figure this out. You’re the most amazing dancer I’ve ever met, and as far as I can see, this Berry bitch is losing her clout with the financial disaster that her show is becoming. You’re going to find something else amazing, with someone who doesn’t think  _this_ is okay, and until then, I’m going to help you out. How much do you—”

“No.” Brittany shakes her head quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“Britt—”

“No, no way.” She pulls her hands away from Santana and stands up, heart dropping to her stomach. “I’ve been between jobs before, and I’ve done it without anyone paying my way.”

“It’s not  _paying your way._ I love you, and I want to help you.”

“I appreciate that, Santana, but I mean it when I say no.”

“Why are you being so proud about this? We’ve been dating for  _months,_ I have the money. You could just move in with me, and—”

“Please,  _please_ tell me you didn’t just do a pity ask thing.”

“What?” Santana is taken aback, hurt by Brittany’s assumption. “No, Britt, why not? You’re here all the time anyway.”

“Nuh uh, no way. I don’t want you to ask me to move in with you because I lost my job. There’s absolutely no way that will ever end well.”

“Oh my God, Brittany, you’re being so damn stubborn.” Santana stands up and rises on her tiptoes, meeting Brittany’s eyes. “I’m asking you to move in with me because I want to live with you.”

“Tell me this.” Brittany lets out a long sigh, rubbing her temples. This is the  _last_ thing she wants to do right now, argue with Santana, but somehow, the idea that she’s pitying her has wormed it’s way into her mind, and her refusing to accept Brittany not wanting financial help is frustrating, to say the least. “Would you have asked me to move in with you tonight if I hadn’t come here and told you I lost my job?”

“No, but, circumstances—”

“I don’t  _want_ it to be about circumstances, Santana.” She softens a little, when she sees how crestfallen Santana looks. “I love you, babe, and trust me, I appreciate your offers more than you know, but I can’t do it this way. I can’t have you be my fallback, I can’t move in with you because you want to financially support me.”

“Britt, you’re my  _girlfriend.”_ Santana pleads, and that’s not a word she uses often. “I just want to take care of you.”

“I know you do, and I know you mean well by this, but take care of me like my  _girlfriend,_ not like my  _mother_. I know you’ve got wine and ice cream in the kitchen, give me that, since I really don’t give a damn about calories right now, cuddle with me on the couch while I feel bad for myself, kiss me, undress me slowly, tell me you love me a hundred times while you make love to me, and be my big spoon when I inevitably cry over what happened tonight, after you’re done. Tell me I’m a good dancer, and you believe I’ll find another job. Kick my ass next week when I’m sulking on your couch, and hold my hands while I wait to hear back on auditions,  _Love_  me, Santana.  _That’s_ what I need from you now, not your money, not you asking me to move in with you, because you think I can’t figure out how to pay my rent. Please, if you want to take care me, do  _this._  I  _can’t_ argue with you. I need you too much right now.”

“Okay.” She nods slowly, opening her arms in a conciliatory gesture, and wrapping them around Brittany when she steps into them. Brittany buries her face in dark hair, and she sucks in a deep, wavering breath as she feels Santana rub slow circles on her lower back. “I’m sorry. And I just…I didn’t mean to sound like I was pitying you, or that I didn’t believe you could do this all yourself. I do. I believe in you so, so much. I just feel like there’s a lot I can’t offer you, but  _this,_ it’s something I can.”

“You offer me so much, Santana Lopez.” Brittany murmurs the words into her hair, squeezing her tighter. “This is why I came here, so you could wrap me up and tell me you believe in me.”

“I do, I really do believe in you so much. And…I’m sorry I asked you to move in with me like that. When I do next time, it will be much more romantic.”

“I’m never asking for romantic, just  _you.”_ She lifts her head and softly kisses Santana’s lips. “And, when you ask me for real, and I have everything figured out, then I’ll answer you for real.”

“You won’t tell me what you’ll say?” Santana cocks her head to the side, giving a hesitant, playful smile.

“No, I won’t.” Her fingers reach down to lace with Santana’s again, and she squeezes them. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Okay.” Already flushed cheeks warm further. “For now, how about I be a good girlfriend and get you that wine and ice cream?”

“That sounds like exactly what I need.”

While Santana is in the kitchen, Brittany goes through Santana’s bedroom and into her bathroom. Though she’s cried most of it off, Brittany can still feel the stage makeup on her face, and it feels heavier than normal. Without the distraction of arguing with Santana, the reality of what happened weighs heavy on Brittany’s chest. Splashing her face with warm water, she watches beige and black and purple slip down the drain, she watches glitter streak Santana’s white marble sink, and she feels like she’s seeing her dream disappear in a swirl of water and the bubbles of expensive face wash. When she’s finished, she looks at herself in the mirror, bare faced and puffy eyed, and she sucks in a deep breath.  _You can do this. You’re talented, you’re vibrant, you’re awesome,_ she repeats over and over to herself, her long standing mantra that got her through many a rough patch.

Emerging back into the bedroom, she slowly slips out of her leotard, and discards it with her leggings into Santana’s hamper. She just needs it away from her right now, or she’s going to start crying again, and when she opens  _her_ drawer, she smiles to herself, seeing the too-short sweatpants of Santana's—ones she’s taken to wearing when she actually  _wears_ pants around Santana—on top of her own things. She slides them up her legs slowly, flexing the muscles of her calves and thighs, her  _dancer legs_ , before shedding her tight bra and pulling a Wham t-shirt over her head. When she returns to the living room, Santana sits on the couch, one wineglass filled higher than normal, and the other filled barely halfway, as Santana is taking it slow reintroducing it into her life. A spoon sticks out from a new pint of Dastardly Mash, something Santana keeps in the house for when Brittany has her period, since she herself believes that  _raisins don’t belong in ice cream, or anything, for that matter,_ and as soon as Brittany sits down, she sinks right into Santana and takes a too-big sip of Pinot Grigio.

“Are you okay?” Santana asks, her voice soft and small. She knows the answer, of course, but still…

“Not really.” She lies her head on Santana’s shoulder and inhales sharply. “I can’t…I can’t even think about it anymore tonight. I know Rachel was awful, and the show was like, actually really bad, but I got to dance  _every night,_ where people could see me. I know every little girl says that, but when I was ten, my parents had this dancer friend from Russia. She’d been a big time ballerina there, and she told me I had dancer bones. She said I was too flighty to be a classical ballerina, but she trained me anyway. My mom would put on  _Don’t Worry Baby,_ and I’d dance around the living room for them. I just…I’m so scared a blew my dream, Santana.”

“You didn’t.” Santana soothes, stroking Brittany’s hair, letting her fingers linger on her collarbone, where they tickle. “Maybe it’ll take some time to find something else, but when you do, on your first night, I’ll be sitting in the front row with flowers, and I will be the proudest girlfriend there ever was.”

“You’re saying  _girlfriend_ a lot tonight.” Brittany cocks her head, looking up at Santana, who looks down sheepishly. “I like it.”

“I’m getting better.” She kisses Brittany’s lips, tasting the wine on them. “I know you like it.”

“I like  _you.”_ Snuggling further into Santana, Brittany looks at the black screen of the television. “Do you mind if we watch  _The Dukes of Hazzard_ or something? It’s been awhile since I’ve had a Friday night free, I forgot about television, and I just want to do something I don’t have to think about.”

“Of course, Britt, but don’t get too used to it, I don’t think you will for very long.“

Brittany stays the weekend with Santana. Truthfully, she’s not ready to face telling her friends, she’s not ready to face calling her family. She just wants to wallow for awhile, and Santana’s is the place to do that. They don’t get dressed all weekend, they’re either naked or in sweats, a  _first,_ Brittany thinks, for Santana, who puts on heels to pick up milk. They order takeout, they watch movies, they have wine drunken sex–well,  _Brittany_ is wine drunken—and with the exception of Brittany calling Sugar to learn that she’s mostly fine, just three stitches and an elbow sprain, and a few dancers she worked with in the past, asking them to let her know if they hear of anything, they stay in their own bubble. Regardless of the circumstances, it’s the first weekend they’ve ever had to themselves, and at least  _that,_ Brittany appreciates.

When Monday morning comes, and Brittany rolls over at the sound of Santana’s alarm, she resists the urge to bury her head under the covers and stay cocooned in the smell of Santana all day. It’s soft and warm under the covers, and it’s freezing outside, but she forces herself out of bed. She throws on jeans and a sweatshirt while Santana showers for work, and she kisses her with a toothpaste mouth over the bathroom sink. It pangs her, how easy it would be to just move in here, how much she’d love having this every day. Maybe her pride is her worst enemy, she _knows_ Santana mentioned them someday moving in together back at Christmas, and her offer wasn’t  _entirely_ out of nowhere, but still, she  _can’t._

While kissing behind the front door, Santana  _insists_ on dropping Brittany home in her cab. She can’t really deny the offer, it’s (mostly) on Santana’s way to work, the temperature has dropped below zero, and if it means an extra twenty-minutes with her girlfriend before she has to go home and make the phone call she really  _doesn’t_ want to make, then she’ll take it. With a gloved hand, Santana offers her a quick squeeze before she climbs out on graffiti littered Essex Street. She’s got a work thing tonight, and Brittany knows she hates them immensely, especially since she’ll be home too late for it to make sense for Brittany to come over, but she’ll call her after, and Brittany will whisper into the phone while her roommates sleep, telling Santana she loves her, telling Santana she’s sorry that she can’t be there to make it better.

Getting up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, Brittany hears ABBA blaring from Mike and Artie’s room, and she can’t help but roll her eyes at the irony of  _Dancing Queen_ playing, what she and Mike have teasingly called each other for years. Dropping her bag on her bed, she knocks on the door, and is beyond grateful when she remembers that Artie is out filming something, and Tina and Lauren are pitching one of their ideas— _shweaters_ , she thinks, shorts made out of old sweaters. She’s loves them all (mostly), but it’s Mike that she needs to talk to. It’s Mike who gets it the most, and when he calls for her to come in, she flops down on his bed, snickering, as she always does, about the  _Return of the Jedi_ poster on the ceiling.

"You guys are such  _nerds.”_

“You sound like Lauren.” Mike bites back, putting his book on the desk and lying head to head with Brittany. “Harrison Ford is hot.”

“Okay, he is, but the fact that you two fall asleep with him looking down on your disturbs me,”

“Don’t think about it too much.”

“Trust me, I try not to.”

“What’s the matter, Britt? Everything okay with you and Santana? Do I need to have Lauren put her in a chokehold, or have Artie run her over with his chair?”

“No, no. Santana is good. It’s just…it finally happened.”

“Fuck.” He sighs, rolling to prop his head on his hand and look at her. He’d been the one Brittany confided in about her concerns, both about the possibility of the show closing, and her not making it to the end because Rachel snapped first. “When’s the closing date?”

“Mine was Friday, me and Sugar both. I pretty much got drunk all weekend, ate a lot of carbs and had a lot of sex.”

“The three cures, obviously. I won’t even ask how it happened.” He shakes his head, knowing, as a dancer himself, that rehashing it is the worst, and she’d most certainly had to do it with Santana over the weekend. “Did you call my brother?”

“I will today. God, Mike, I’m a  _terrible_ waitress. I’m not sure he’ll take me back this time, after I dropped Jonnie’s entire knife block in the fryer…”

“I mean, it’s a miracle Jonniedidn’t  _kill_  you, but you know Rob, he’ll always give you a job.”

“Good thing for that. Even being an awful waitress pays more than pouring coffee.”

“It’s true, it does. You told Santana?”

“That I got fired, yeah. But I haven’t told her yet that I’m going to be a waitress. She asked me to move in with her on Friday.”

“ _What?_ She  _did?”_

“Yeah, but I said no. She wants to pay my way until I find another part, and I’m just not about that. I swear, I was positive I was going to find twenties shoved in my pants pockets this morning.”

“Your sugar momma, huh?”

“Absolutely  _not.”_ Brittany huffs, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist. “Okay so she’s like five years older than me, and she not only  _comes from_ money, but she makes a lot, and she has this real problem with thinking she needs to spend money on me, but our relationship isn’t like that at all. And I  _know_ she doesn’t mean to be patronizing, but it already sucks dating someone…well-off, when I’m clearly  _not._ Last week she took me out for  _escargot_ and this like…billion dollar champagne or something. The next day, I brought hotdogs from the guy on the corner of her block.”

“I’m sure she loved every second of that hot dog.”

“I mean, her barfing that night may or may not have been related, but she totally blamed it on the snails anyway.”

“She’s really in love with you.” Mike muses, shaking his head. “Artie’s probably the only person who could feed me a rotten hot dog and I’d still keep around.”

“It wasn’t  _rotten.”_ She laughs, grabbing a pillow and hitting him in the stomach. “But really, it was probably a bad idea with her ulcer, who even  _knows_ what’s in those things.”

“Seven inches of boiled deliciousness on a bun.” He licks his lips. “So you’re really not going to move into her fancy Upper East Side house, with her maid, and her fancy stuff.”

“Millie isn’t a  _maid,_ she’s a housekeeper.”

“Okay, same difference. Not that I’m complaining, finding a new roommate’ll suck, but you’re my friend first, but you’re sure? It would make things a lot easier for you.”

“Yeah, I’m totally sure. Not right now. It would be a lot easier, but it doesn’t feel right. We love each other, and I don’t want moving in together too soon, for the wrong reasons to mess things up. I’m  _so_ happy with her, but I haven’t been in a serious relationship in awhile, and she didn’t  _do_ serious relationships until now, so I just want to do it right,“

"I think that’s smart of you.” Mike smiles, patting her arm.

“So how are  _you,_ Mike? I feel like we’re hardly on the same schedule anymore.”

“Not bad. My extension classes are going well, Artie and I are doing well, there’s a lot of guys like me out there who have got it way worse, especially  _now,_ so I can’t complain.”

“I’m glad you guys got together when you did.” Brittany reaches down to squeeze Mike’s hand, a sort of silent gratitude for something they just don’t talk about.

“Yeah, Britt, trust me, me too.” He sighs, pulling the pillow from his stomach and up under his head. “One of these days, we’ll make it unofficially official.”

“Will you?” Her jaw drops, surprised.

“We’ve talked about it. Who cares if it means anything to anyone but us, right? We’ll get Robbie to give us the restaurant for the night, get some rings, some flowers, and a whole lot of beer.”

“Now  _that_ sounds like a wedding to get on board with. Do I get to bring a date?”

“I think Santana would be completely offended if you didn’t.” Mike chuckles. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“You better. I  _obviously_ have a very busy calendar I’m keeping right now.” She forces a laugh, though it’s really not funny. “I mean, who knows, I might be one of the cater waiters at your wedding at this rate.”

“I’m sure my brother will give you the night off. So what do you think, ready to call him?”

“Little while.” Brittany closes her eyes. “Right now, I’m going to pretend I didn’t say no to Santana’s offer, and I’m laying on her couch watching soaps and eating something Millie insisted on cooking me for lunch. Let me just not be a waitress for five more minutes.”

“Okay, Britt, feel free to use my bed for your non-sexual fantasies for as long as you need.”


	9. I Found a Real Dream, Baby, When I Found You

Throughout the first half of February, Brittany’s sudden change of employment, and subsequent refusal to accept  _any_ help from Santana puts a bit of a strain on their relationship. More often than not, Santana finds herself frustrated with the whole of the situation. She’s never been in love before, and seeing the woman she love ring her doorbell after a long shift at the restaurant bone tired—and more often than not, covered in some sort of food product that she’d spilled on herself, which Santana doesn’t quite understand, given her natural grace—upsets her. This isn’t Brittany tired from living her dream, this isn’t Santana herself tired from dealing with incompetence at the bank, this is her exhausted and crabby simply so she has the money to pay the rent, rent that she doesn’t even  _have to_ pay. None of it makes sense to Santana, but for the sake of not arguing with her girlfriend, she keeps her opinions on the matter to herself.

It’s the week before Valentine’s Day, and much to Santana’s delight—and possibly a calculated maneuver on the part of Robbie, who’d prefer to keep his candlelight diners on the occasion from taking a bath in soy sauce—Brittany is working two weeks worth of day shifts. In the three weeks that Brittany has worked as Chang’s, Santana has eaten there four times, each time requesting to sit in her section, and each time, leaving a tip that’s far too big for what she’s ordered, tip money that she’s found each time crumpled in a ball on her dresser the next morning, and that she puts back into Brittany’s wallet while she’s in the shower. With Brittany on days, Santana decides to step out for lunch on Tuesday, and warning Ben Israel that it’s coming out of his paycheck if he does something absurd in her absence, she takes a cab up to the restaurant.

When she walks in the door, heels clicking on linoleum, Brittany catches her eye, and Santana swears, she sees a hint of irritation in her posture. Helen, the regular hostess, doesn’t even wait for Santana to ask, she just grabs a menu and seats her in the corner table in Brittany’s section, not saying a word as she turns away and gestures for the bus boy to fill her water glass. Santana inspects the menu carefully, nails drumming on the tablecloth, though she’s ordered the same thing each time she’s come in—she’s a creature of habit, as it is—and she waits for Brittany to take her order.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Brittany leans against the table and flips her order pad open.

“Hi.” Santana beams at her, taking in how she looks in her black slacks and blouse, stained white apron around her waist, and her hair braided down her back, such a stark contrast to her usual appearance, but still just as pretty. “How are you today?”

“Well it’s work, so, fantabulous.” She rolls her eyes a little, not really looking into Santana’s. “I’ve got like five tables, apparently  _everyone_ wants to come for lunch today.”

“Do you not want me here?” Santana bites her lip nervously.

“No, no, it’s fine.” Her attempts to hide her irritation are strong, and Santana closes her menu and hands it back to her. “The usual?”

“Please.”

While she waits for her lunch, Santana reads over the stack of reports in the folder she’d brought with her, marking them with neat, left handed print. She tries not to keep her eyes on Brittany as she works, though she desperately wants to. Despite their conversation the night that Brittany had lost her job, Santana still feels the strong desire to take care of her, and not in the creepy, maternal way that her girlfriend had implied, but in the way she’d take care of anyone she loves, only amplified, because it’s  _Brittany,_ her  _greatest_  love. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in her, not at  _all._ It’s the opposite, actually. She believes in her so much that she’s certain she should spend her days honing her craft, she should spend her days auditioning for great parts in shows that will appreciate her extraordinary talent. And she should move in with Santana. Not just because of money, not at  _all_ because of money, really, but Santana is terrible at articulating herself when it comes to feelings. She’s terrible at telling Brittany that she wants to fall asleep in her arms every night, and wake up in her arms every morning. She’s terrible at telling her that she gets pangs in her chest at the thought of stupid things, like mail coming addressed to Brittany, or her changing the address on her license. She’s terrible at telling her that now that she’s met her and learned about all the things she never knew how to want, she wants them  _all,_ even the ones she knows she  _can’t_ have.

“Egg foo yong, white rice and a Diet 7-Up.” Brittany sets the food down in front of Santana, using extra care not to drop it in her lap—since she  _had_ spilled soda all over her the last time she was here. “Four-ninety-five lunch special. Twenty-dollar tip  _not_ permissible.”

“Britt—”

“Don’t  _Britt_ me.” She rolls her eyes. “In the two weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve made a hundred and fifty dollars in tips, and eighty of those dollars were from _you._ I might look like an airhead when you’re in here, but don’t think I don’t notice the money back in my wallet after I give it back.”

“The gratuity reflects the impeccable service. You  _know_ I’m a good tipper, Brittany.”

“Santana, I spilled a soda on your brand new suit the other night. My service is terrible.”

“I’ve never complained about you getting me wet before.” Santana lowers her voice so it’s inaudible to anyone but Brittany, and Brittany huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh my God,  _stop._ You’re being fricking ridiculous right now, and I’m feeling really disrespected.”

“Britt, I’m not trying to disrespect you.”

“I know you’re not  _trying,_ but you legit  _are_. I  _asked_ you to let me do this on my own, and coming here and giving me stupid tips for my shit waitressing skills is the same as you handing me money. The biggest tip I’ve gotten that wasn’t from you was five dollars, and it was from a nasty old man who mostly checked out my ass the whole time. I  _love_ you, and I shouldn’t want to turn around and leave the room when I see you walk through the door.”

“Brittany.” Santana swallows hard, hurt by Brittany’s words.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…I’m working, Santana. I’m doing what I’ve gotta do, and I already feel like crap that I can barely get an order right. When you come in and do this, it makes me feel even ”

“I really…I don’t mean to do that.” She struggles finding the words she wants to say.

“I  _know.”_ Brittany sighs. “I know this is just how you are, and your generosity, it’s…I love it about you, but you already spend all this money on me, and I know you’re planning a big Valentine’s dinner because you’re  _terrible_ at keeping secrets. Just, put yourself in my shoes for one second, alright? How would  _you_ feel, if I was doing all these totally ace things, and  _then,_ on top of it, the money you spent on a gift for me was also bought with money  _I_ had given  _you.”_

“You don’t have to buy me anything.”

“You’re, like,  _entirely_ missing the point, oh my God.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, I think I’m going to stay home tonight.”

“But Britt.” Santana sucks her lips into her mouth and furrows her brow, still speaking so softly. “We were going to watch  _The Facts of Life,_ and take a bath…”

“I just need a little space right now, Santana. I’m not doing it to hurt you, I just…I really don’t want to be mad at you, and I’ve gotta cool out, okay?”

“Okay.” She concedes, though the sting of it resonates through her whole body. “Okay, fine.”

“Santana—”

“Whatever, Britt, it’s fine. I’ll just go.”

“Stay for lunch. I know if you leave now you won’t eat.” Brittany’s concern for Santana’s well being trumps her frustration, and subtly, she strokes the back of Santana’s hand with her pointer finger.

“Just have them wrap it to go. I’ll eat it in my office so you have  _space.”_

Santana leaves no room for negotiation, and Brittany simply nods, stepping away from the table with her order pad. The sting of Brittany’s words doesn’t soften, and Santana, as she does, feels anger and frustration roiling in the pit of her stomach. Her words lack, her words  _constantly_ lack, and as Brittany sets the paper bag with cartons of food down on the table, Santana’s insecurities lick at her. So desperately, she wants to be enough. So desperately, she wants to articulate her deep need to show her love for Brittany the best way she knows how, but instead, she chooses her pride, and she walks out of the restaurant it’s scarcely another word.

Her afternoon is busy. She eats half of the egg foo yong, and steps outside to discard the rest so her office doesn’t reek like it while she has an interview to do. She wants to swallow her anger, to call Brittany and apologize, but the truth is, she’s not sorry for wanting to help her, she’s only sorry for not being able to communicate that she’s not doing it to patronize her. So she doesn’t pick up the phone to leave a message at home for her. She’s not going to beg her to come over to the place she should be  _living_ anyway. No, she’ll order takeout from the Indian place, because Brittany hates it, and she never gets to eat it anymore. She’ll take a bath on her own, stretching her body in the big tub. She’ll drink a half a glass of wine and watch  _The Facts of Life_ on her own. And she’ll wait until Brittany has had enough  _space_ from her well meaning gestures.

When Terri knocks on her door to announce that her three o'clock has arrived, and makes some snide comment about how she’s filed away all the papers, lest they become kindling, Santana glowers at her, not even understanding what the hell her dumb joke means. Terri, of course, is always quick to bite back, and snarks about how she must be on her period or fighting with her boyfriend—the pang of that word hitting hard in the gut—making Santana tell her to go smoke a cigarette, or drink out if the damn flask she hides in the top drawer, and mind her own business. With a roll of her eyes, she escorts the fresh faced young man in, and when Santana sees him, she swears, he curtsies a little before he reached out to shake her hand.

He not a candidate she’d consider on sight, the very green—both to New York City, and the real world as a whole—Kurt Hummel, and given her frustration with Brittany, he’s the type of candidate she’d typically snark at, but there’s something that changes her mind. There’s something about this boy, fresh out of his finance program at the University of San Francisco, that makes her reconsider. He’s young, only twenty-two, having finished his program in three-and-a-half years, and she probably could find someone far better suited, and far less doe eyed for the job, but she doesn’t. She seems something in him, something beyond the sympathy she feels for his obvious gayness, which he’ll never be able to hide from prospective employers, and with things as they are now, a mark that will hold him back—and God, Santana thanks her lucky stars that she doesn’t have markers like that, at least, she  _thinks_ she doesn’t. Santana sees something in him, and when he proves his financial prowess in her interview questions, she offers him the job on the spot, hoping she doesn’t regret her decision.

She works late. Work is a distraction from thinking about how Brittany had told her she needed space, it’s a distraction from Brittany telling her that she makes her feel like crap, it’s a distraction from the bubbling pit of anger and embarrassment and guilt that roils low in her belly. Numbers calm her, as does the two puffs of the cigar she smokes when she closes her office door at four o'clock, and when she leaves, hailing a cab on the icy night, she tries to hang onto that small sense of peace.

It doesn’t last long. When she gets home, she mopes. She’d thought she’d be followed not far behind by Brittany, and now she’s alone. She’s alone in her big stupid house, she’s alone with the money that she keeps trying to push on Brittany. She’s alone, and though she’d been this way for a long time before, alone now feels less comforting and more  _lonely,_ and she hates every minute of it. She looks at the silent phone, and she doesn’t pick it up, not again, after she orders her Indian food and takes a half-full bottle of wine out of the refrigerator to fill her glass. She doesn’t pick up the phone, because doesn’t think that’s giving Brittany space, though she hates how it doesn’t ring. She hates it all through her lonely dinner. She hates it in her second glass of wine, after she swallows the pills for her stomach, as if the combination will help the twisting knots. She hates it as she soaks in the tub, her hand between her legs in a futile attempt to distract herself. And she hates it as she dresses in pajamas and thick socks, before pouring a  _third_  glass of wine, finishing the bottle, and settling in front of the television, wishing, now that she’d gotten Brittany into the show, that she was there to cuddle close to her and continue convincing her that there’s  _totally_ something going on between Jo and Blair.

At ten-thirty-two, the phone finally rings. Santana jumps to get it, though she’s certain it’s Mercedes, or, if she’s really unlucky, her mother. She holds the receiver to her ear, and though she tries to sound breezy, in case it  _is_ Brittany, she hears her own eagerness in every breath,

“Hello?”

 _Hey._ Brittany speaks low on the other end, and Santana’s heart hammers in her chest,

“Hi.”

 _Hi._ There’s a pause after the fourth greeting, and Santana twirls the cord with her forefinger.  _What are you doing?_

“Watching the Olympics. Speed skating is on, or something, what about you?”

 _Just kind of vegging here. Lauren has…I don’t know, a_ thing  _tomorrow, so she’s demanding complete silence, and I can’t watch TV. I missed our show, but I didn’t want to go to bed without talking to you._

“Oh.” Santana bites her lip. She’s unsure what to say, the conversation feels uneasy, and the bubbling begins in her belly again.

_Santana, I…I’m sorry I got mad at you in the restaurant._

“It’s whatever, it’s fine.”

_It’s not, and also, you don’t really sound like it’s fine._

“Well you need your space, so I’m giving it to you. I ordered from Taj Mahal and I took a bath. Now I’m having some wine.”

_You sound a little…drunk?_

“I’m fine.” Santana asserts, and then she sniffles a little. She  _hates_ that she gets weepy and emotional when she drinks, and she hates that her little tiff with Brittany is making her even more so. “I’m just tired.”

 _Santana…_ Brittany sighs a little.  _Are you crying?_

“No, I’m fine. I’m just relaxing and…not making anyone feel like crap tonight.”

_I’m sorry that I said that._

“But it’s true, isn’t it.”

 _That wasn’t the right way to put it. It’s not you, it’s just, I don’t know, Santana, it’s really hard for me right now. I love seeing you, you_ know _I love seeing you, but then having that attached to you giving me money, or_ tipping  _me, or whatever, made me_ not  _want to, and_ that  _made me feel like crap, because I love you._

“I hate it Brittany.” Santana wipes her tears with the heels of her hands, but more spring up in their wake. “I hate that you’re working your ass off for tips, and what? I come up here and sit on my expensive couch and drink my expensive wine and just…you’re downtown when I’d rather you be here. I want to share what I have with you, I don’t get why it’s making you so mad.”

 _It’s making me mad, because even my_ friends  _jokingly call you my sugar mama, and because I know_ you  _can’t tell me that Mercedes, and maybe your cousin too, worry about whether I’m after you for your money. It’s making me mad, because a relationship is about equal partnership, and I can’t feel like I’m your equal partner when I struggle to pay my rent, and the only reason I_ don’t  _feel stressed about that, and about giving you a Valentine’s Day gift that you deserve, is because of the tips_ you  _gave me. It’s making me mad, because I_ know  _that you’re doing what you’re doing because you love me, and I still can’t help but resent this helpless role._

“But you’re  _not.”_ Santana takes a deep breath, trying to keep a stupid wine induced sob from hiccuping out. “You’re not helpless at all. It’s just stupid _money,_ Brittany. I don’t care about it at all.”

 _You’re a_ banker _, Santana, that sounds ridiculous._

“I’m not a  _banker_ with you. And you’re not an unemployed dancer, or a waitress, or any of that. You’re just you and I’m just me, and with  _you,_ I don’t care about money. With  _you,_ I don’t go to nice restaurants to show off. I go, because maybe they have a soup that I think you might love, or maybe I think you’ll think the ambiance is cool, or maybe because that’s how I know how to treat you well!” Santana’s voice raises, and she fists the fabric of her pants. “And maybe it really  _bothers_ me how you think everything I try to do now is some kind of patronizing move,  _maybe_ it really makes me crazy that I tip you in the restaurant because what kind of girlfriend would I be sitting here sipping wine that costs more than you  _make_ and just being okay with that?”

_Sant—_

“I’m not done.” The wine has loosened her tongue, and Santana surprises herself with how much comes out. “I  _never_ regretted being well off financially until you came along. I never felt bad about having money until you wouldn’t let me share it with you. If it wasn’t like this, you wouldn’t think I was treating you like a charity case by asking you to move into my crappy one bedroom apartment. You’re making me absolutely insane, because now that I said it, I wish every time that you leave that you didn’t have to, and whether you had zero dollars or a million dollars, I’d still be wishing that you’d said yes and moved in with me. I was never making this about money until  _you_ did, and if you want to talk about making people feel like crap, I really feel like crap that you even  _think_ that, and I feel like crap that I’m sitting here by myself when I could be with  _you,_ because you’re mad at me.”

There’s a long pause on both ends of the line, and Santana wipes her face again and takes another sip of her wine before she opens her mouth to speak again. “Okay, I’m done.”

_I’m sorry, Santana. I didn’t realize I was making you feel like that._

“I know you didn’t. I just…I don’t know what to do. I can’t be sorry for wanting to share everything I have with you, but I  _am_ sorry that you feel like crap because of it.”

 _I think…_ Brittany hums on the other end of the line, the noise she makes when she’s thinking intently.  _I think we need to come up with some sort of compromise about this._

“Like what kind of compromise?”

 _I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far in my head yet. Like, I understand what you’re saying, I_ do,  _babe, but it’s always going to make me crazy if you come into the restaurant and give me twenty dollar tips._

“I mean, in fairness to me, giving you twenty dollar tips at Robbie’s is better than me leaving twenty-dollar bills on the nightstand.”

 _Not funny._ Santana can hear the roll of Brittany’s eyes, though she follows it with a laugh.

“It’s a  _little_ funny. Fine, I won’t come into the restaurant, if that makes you feel better.”

 _That’s not what I’m asking. I actually_ like  _when you come in. I know that you’re not going to yell at me if I spill food in your lap, or, like, ask what the deal with your hair is._

"Britt! You didn’t!”

 _Okay the guy had fricking butt ugly hair, and this hideous suit, which totally looked_ better  _with the Hunan beef on the pants, and I was in a bad mood because we were mad at each other. Robbie was pretty mad at me, I guess the guy’s like super rich or something, and also a gigantic jerk._ And,  _in my defense, it was a really bad idea having me wait on him, but Helen didn’t know who he was either, and she thought his hair was fugly too. I have to find out what his name is, I bet_ you  _know who he is._

“Gee, thanks.”

 _No, I mean because you read the business section of the paper, not because you have bad hair or ugly suits. You_ know  _I love_ your _suits and_ your _hair. That one today, is it new? I’ve never seen it, and mad at you or not, your ass looked fantastic._

“Thanks, Brittany.” Santana laughs, so appreciative of the fact that they’re talking normal too each other.

_Anyway, sorry, I got distracted. I think…I’d like you to come in, but you can’t tip me like that._

“This doesn’t really sound like a compromise.” She furrows her brow and massages her temples, not feeling like she got her point across.

_I’m not finished yet. I think, I’d like to consider your offer…the one where you asked me to move in with you._

“Don’t make it sound like a  _business decision, baby_.”

 _I’m sorry, it’s not. It’s a really huge thing, and like, a major step in our relationship, but I’m going to really think about it, make sure I’m_ there,  _okay? I’m hearing you, that you’re not doing it to patronize me, and I_ do  _want to live with you. Just give me a little time to figure it all out, okay?_

“You can have all the time in the world, Britt, my home isn’t going anywhere, and I’m not going to change my mind about wanting that. Will I see you tomorrow?”

 _You better._ Santana hears the playful teasing in her voice.  _I’ll come by after work, and since you_ love  _the food from work so much, I’ll be sure to bring dinner._

“I love you, sleep well, and good luck with Lauren.”

_Thank you, babe. I love you too._

For the next four days, Santana is graced with Brittany’s presence after work. The tension between them seems to have dissolved, now that they’ve come to a sort of mutual understanding, though Brittany has yet to give Santana an answer, or even any sort of indication that she’s still considering the offer to move in. But Santana doesn’t push. She doesn’t want to put any pressure on her to make such a big decision, so she just waits. She puts her effort into showing Kurt Hummel the ropes, and when the weekend comes, she puts an even greater effort into revamping her Valentine’s Day plans, after an agreement that they wouldn’t buy gifts for each other, in hopes of really proving to Brittany through action that she means exactly what she’d said.

When the fourteenth rolls around, Santana, for the first time in her life, leaves work almost an hour early. Of course, she’s subjected to snide comments about her  _hot date,_ and questions of who the  _lucky guy_ is (and some  _worse_ discussion of castration and her keeping someone’s balls in her back pocket). She just breathes deeply and she ignores them, despite the visceral reaction her body has to them  _ever_ knowing who she’s really spending the evening with, despite the ideas of rumors that could cost her the career she’s built. But it’s Brittany, this great big love she’s found, and it’s their first Valentine’s Day together,  _her_ first Valentine’s Day with anyone, and she’s not going to let the idiots who work for her ruin that with their small-brained gossip.

She goes home immediately, knowing she’ll have a lot to deal with in the morning, and she sheds her heels and her suit jacket so she can get the house (and herself) ready. Not wasting any time, because she has a delivery coming at six, Santana takes her dress out of the closet, and she gets in the shower. By the time she’s stepped out, she has exfoliated every square inch of her body, and her legs are smooth as silk. Her hair and her makeup, she takes her time with, pinning up a mess of curls, and swiping deep red across her lips. The lingerie she wears, it’s new, and red as her lips, right down to the clips that hold her garters, but over it, she’s dressed in demure black, with smoky eyes to match. When she’s satisfied with how she looks, stopping only for a moment, when she imagines teeth dragging down the collarbone her dress leaves exposed, Santana slides into a pair of her red bottomed heels and pads into the living room.

Taking out every candle she owns, Santana lights them, and then attempts a fire in the never used wood burning stove, silently begging the universe to keep it from exploding as she tosses the wood she’d asked Millie—who’d worn a comical face of disbelief—to arrange a delivery for. By the time she’s finished with that, and sets a silver bucket of ice for the champagne on the blanket she’s spread out in the floor, the doorbell rings, and Santana takes another breath, and signs for the delivery from Zabar’s. She sets the food in the oven to keep warm, and pulls out record after record, before deciding on  _The Songstress_  one of her new favorites, and sinking down on the couch to wait for Brittany.

It’s just before seven when Brittany arrives, and Santana opens the door to a flurry of snow that hadn’t been there a half an hour earlier. Brittany’s cheeks and nose are chapped red, but the way she smiles when she sees Santana seems to warm the the whole winter. She steps through the doorway, and before she even sheds her coat, she holds out a bouquet of peonies for Santana, who beams as she does.

“Brittany.” She smiles softly, shyly, almost, because a girl who brings her flowers…it just gives her butterflies.

“Robbie was putting them on all the tables tonight, and I thought of you.”

“He let you take them?”

“My reward for not breaking any dishes today.” Brittany shrugs sheepishly, then sets the flowers down so her can put her arms around Santana and pull her close, snowflakes still melting on her cheeks and eyelids. She kisses her, and murmurs her words into her mouth. “Happy Valentine’s Day. You look gorgeous, babe. Guess we’re going somewhere fancy?”

“I guess you can say that.” Santana shrugs, a wry smile forming on the corners of her mouth. “Take off your coat and come inside.”

Brittany, getting a little better about Santana’s penchant for having everything in its place, hangs her coat in the closet and leaves her shoes by the door, before following into the living room. When she gasps at the dimmed lights and the array of candles, Santana sucks her lips into her mouth, thinking  _maybe_ her idea of skipping the nonsense of going out—more than because she had thought it might make Brittany feel more comfortable about the money situation, but also, because she wants to be able to show uncensored affection to her all evening—was a good one. Brittany, in a hot pink dress that hugs her body and dangling heart earrings, just cocks her head to the side, before shaking it and lowering her eyelids, this thing she seems to do when Santana’s whole  _everything_ is too much for her to handle.

“You made us a picnic.”

“Well…” Santana takes her plump lower lip between her teeth. “If I’d  _made_ the picnic, we’d be having eggs for dinner, but I  _did_ set it up.”

“Eggs would have been fine.” She laughs. “I’ve given up on trying to figure out what food goes with what meal, the whole thing was already too confusing, and then there’s eggs in, like,  _everything_ at the restaurant, so…”

“I wanted it to be a little more special than my totally awesome scrambled eggs, but I thought we could stay in tonight, so I cancelled our reservations, I hope you don’t mind,”

“I love you, so much.” Brittany beams, pulling Santana to her again, fingers creeping along the hem of her dress. “I never thought I’d see the day that you were down with eating on the  _floor,_ but this is perfect. I’d totally rather have you all to myself tonight.”

With Santana ushering her to sit, Brittany does, folding her legs so the dress she’s wearing rides up her thighs. Leaving her there, Santana goes to the kitchen, and when she returns, she holds a vase for the flowers, a platter of fruit and cheese, and under her arm, a bottle of champagne. She smiles at the way Brittany looks at her, bliss filling every cell of her body, and she sets the plate on the floor, before popping the cork and filling two glasses with bubbly liquid.

“To you and me.” She looks into crystal blue eyes, handing the second glass to Brittany, and clinking it with her own. “To more than Valentine’s Day, to finding someone who loves me with all my flaws and my idiosyncrasies, and who’s taught me how to love in you return. To you, Britt, the light of my life, the  _love_ of my life.”

“Jeeze, babe.” Brittany tries to laugh, though Anita Baker crooning  _Hold me near, hold me tight, only you can make it real, only you make it all right_  does little to quell the intensity of her emotions about Santana looking at her in that way she does. “You didn’t tell me to pack tissues.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just been…a dumb few weeks, and I don’t like us arguing, so I want you to know how much I love you.”

“I do know, and I love you that much too.” Brittany promises, squeezing Santana’s stocking clad thigh. In that moment, Santana half expects for Brittany to give her an answer about this  _thing_ between them, but she doesn’t. She simply brings her champagne to pink lips and wrinkles her nose as the bubbles hit her—she’s acquiring a taste for it, but she’d never really had much of it before Santana—and smiles against the flute as Santana drinks hers too. “Alright, let’s eat, because I’ve got like, super sexy plans for you later.”

They’re quiet as they eat the fruit and cheese, Brittany insisting upon feeding the grapes to Santana— _“duh, like the goddess you are, babe”_ —and Santana fretting in the kitchen over possibly drying out the lamb she’d ordered by leaving it to stay warm in the oven for too long. But it’s perfect for Brittany, and she tells Santana as much a dozen or so times. It’s perfect for her, because it shows her that (despite the fact that it  _probably_ cost just as much money as a night out) Santana is listening to her about not needing extravagant things, no matter how much the other woman thinks she deserves them. It’s about her really  _getting_ that Brittany hates this weird financial dynamic, and is making a conscious effort for it not to feel that way for her. Brittany feels such a swell of love towards her for this, and by the time they finish the chocolate mousse, and Brittany swipes her tongue over Santana’s lip to catch a stray dollop of whipped cream, she can’t help but pull her up so she’s straddling her lap.

It doesn’t take long for Santana to feel breathless, not when her prediction about Brittany’s teeth on her exposed collarbone comes true almost immediately, not when eager hands tug at the top of her dress, eager to get a glimpse of her lingerie, not when lips attach themselves to the top of her breast, sucking, marking her where no one else can see, until she can’t suppress the moan in her throat. This over the clothes foreplay, it’s something that Brittany has mastered, and until she’d met this woman, Santana had never imagined coming without any sort of physical stimulation between her legs, and even more so, had never imagined orgasming that way without feeling mortification and shame over her  _performance_. But with Brittany, it’s different. With Brittany, she can weave her hands through blonde locks and look into hungry blue eyes teasing her nipples through red lace, she can writhe and moan, watching Brittany slip long fingers into her own panties and pleasure herself while she kisses Santana and whimpers into her mouth. With Brittany, she can come from very little, and then pull Brittany’s fingers from her own sex and hike her dress up to replace them with her mouth without feeling filthy.

Santana lies flat on her stomach, dishes left forgotten and tiny heart dotted panties only as far down as Brittany’s knees. Every ounce of propriety and composure that she strives so hard to keep throughout her work day is long gone, and she’s left with tangled hair and swollen lips as short nails rake her upper back, begging for more of what her mouth is offering. She loves making Brittany writhe, she loves every breathy utterance of  _fuck, Santana, don’t stop_ —the  _Santana_ of it, in particular—she loves knowing that in the moments where she’s between her legs, lips wrapped around a sensitive bundle of nerves, and fingers sliding in and out of tight heat, that there’s nothing Brittany needs that Santana can’t give.

“Take your clothes off.” Brittany rasps, tremors wracking her body. “And come up here.”

Knowing exactly what it is Brittany wants, a shiver rubbed through Santana’s body, and she sits up to pull her dress over her head, revealing in full the temptress-like set that’s beneath it. Brittany swallows hard at the sight of Santana kneeling before her in red, the bruise from her lips blooming at the top of her breast. In response, Santana feels a smirk play on her lips, and though she’s desperate for another release, she takes her time removing the remaining  barriers. When she remains in only her thigh-highs, she kneels over Brittany, bending to kiss her lips before moving her lower half upward. Fingertips press into the smooth skin of her ass, and she feels a wanton moan building and releasing at just the thought of what’s to come.

When Brittany’s breath is hot against her center, Santana looks down, finding hungry blue eyes and the swipe of a tongue over pink lips. Before she lowers herself, Santana waits for Brittany’s direction, and a small smile—more full of love than anything else, even in that moment,  _especially_ in that moment—and guiding hands bring her down to an eager mouth. She lets go like this, she always does, despite her initial hesitation the first time Brittany breathed the words  _I want you to sit on my face_ into her ear, in the midst of a heavy make out session in the couch, and she’s unabashed, throwing her head back and crying out Brittany’s name as one hand palms her own breast, and the other rakes through ebony hair.

As she pleasures her, Brittany doesn’t take her eyes off Santana. She could drown in this and never be more fulfilled, her scent, her taste, the spasms and jumps against her tongue, the tightening of warm thighs against her ears, shutting out everything but the ethereal woman above her. When her orgasm hits her, Santana’s eyes roll back, and she can scarcely hold herself up, starfished hands searching blindly for something to grasp onto, before Brittany’s catch her waist, holding her steady and guiding her onto her back, snatching a cashmere blanket to wrap around them both.

Mustering the strength to prop her head on her hand, Santana turns in her side, finding Brittany’s eyes, flickering bright in the candlelight. She kisses her then, soft and sweet, full of more words, the words she doesn’t know how to speak. Finding a loose strand of blonde hair, Santana tucks it behind Brittany’s ear, and she just takes her in, still mostly clothed, cheeks damp Santana’s arousal, and this adoring sort of smile that she thinks maybe Brittany only has for her. They lie there awhile, not speaking, just being, no tension between them, no stress of the outside world getting into their bubble on the living room floor. Santana is nearly thirty years old, and yet, she feels younger than she even has in these quiet moments, she feels like without the weights she carries all day long, she’s finally getting her chance to have each and every thing that she never allowed herself to want. They’re the best moments for her, even sprawled out on the floor, and she thinks she’d spend the night just like this, if the twinge in her knee didn’t remind her that she walks in heels on hard tile floors all day, and if she doesn’t want to spend tomorrow struggling to walk properly—and be subject to the snickers and gossip behind her back that she’s finally  _getting dick_ —they should move their party to the bedroom.

Knowing Santana as she does, when they finally break from their reverie, Brittany starts gathering the remnants of their dinner as soon as she stands, and her girl smiles appreciatively at the gesture. Wrapped in only the blanket, Santana makes her way to the kitchen, and she’s quiet, contemplative, as she takes the plates from Brittany, and she loads them carefully in the dishwasher. She gets like this after sex, she always does, though she’s yet to pinpoint quite why. Brittany gives her space, each time, be it simply emotional, or actually physical like now, and it’s doesn’t go unappreciated, whether she speaks the words aloud or not. She stays like this as she finishes up in the kitchen, as Brittany blows out the candles, as they dress for bed—Brittany, as always, in just a kitschy long t-shirt, and never underwear, such a contrast to Santana’s silk sets— and even as they stand side by side at the bathroom sink, washing off makeup and brushing teeth. It’s not until they’re beneath the covers, Santana in the glasses that she’s finally revealed to Brittany, looking at her calendar for the morning, that Brittany chances to speak again.

“I really like this.” She says quietly, fingers tickling Santana’s right arm which lies atop the covers.

“Hmm?” Santana closes the calendar and sets it on the nightstand, before she rolls on her side to face her Brittany.

“I dunno, the not-sex stuff.” Dark eyes crinkle in confusion at Brittany’s words, and she shakes her head. “I mean, obviously I’m a  _mega_ fan of the sex stuff. But I mean, I like this too, all of it, and not even just the today stuff. Like, having shows we watch together, and doing the dishes, and watching you with your cute glasses on in bed, mentally planning your workday for tomorrow. I like brushing my teeth with you and waking up with you, and digging through your drawers for socks and finding that some of  _my_ socks have ended up in your drawer. I like  _being_ here. No. I  _love_ being here, and I can be stubborn for another however long it takes me to land a role, but I guess really, I’m just missing out on these really awesome things. And I talked to my roommates this week about finding someone to take my place…”

“So you…”

“Ask me for real this time, when we’re not fighting or being stressed out or anything. You said you wanted to do it romantically, and we’re in our pajamas in bed together on Valentine’s Day, after your super amazing picnic and mind blowing sex. That’s as romantic as it can get.”

“Britt.” She laughs, then realizes that Brittany is entirely serious, throwing off, once again, her planning nature. “Okay. Alright fine. Would you like to move in with me?”

“So formal. Hmm, let me think about it.” Her fingertip taps her chin, as if she’s considering, and Santana rolls her eyes. “Okay, sure, I think I’d like that a lot.”

“Yeah?” Santana’s mouth spreads into a wide smile.

“I do.” Brittany’s face matches, before she turns serious. “Just one thing, and I don’t want to fight about it, okay?”

“Okay.” She’s hesitant, but Brittany presses a hand to her cheek and thumbs the creases around her left eye, soothing her worries.

“I know, obviously, that I can never afford to  _really_ pay for anything significant here, but, I want to kick in what I can. I  _need_ you to let me do that.”

“That’s fair.” Santana concedes. “But I don’t want you to give up your dreams because you’re worried about giving more than you can afford, okay? That’s the most important thing to me, and I think it’s a fair compromise.”

“I can agree to that. We’re getting good at this compromising thing, aren’t we?”

“We are.” She presses a kiss to Santana’s lips, and Santana smiles into it, thinking of how this will be an every night occurrence in the very near future.

“It’s a good thing too,  _roomie.”_

“That’s the weirdest word I’ve ever loved the sound of.”

“Oh yeah,  _roomie?_ Want me to say it again.”

“Please.” Santana laughs, breathless, as Brittany pulls her into her little spoon position and kisses the side of her neck.

“Alright,  _roomie,_ I’ll tell you again and again, for as long as you want.”


	10. When the World Outside’s Too Much To Take, That All Ends When I’m With You

In the few weeks following Brittany’s acceptance of Santana’s offer for her to move in, Brittany sets to work tying up the loose ends in her current apartment. She sits with Artie and Tina as they interview prospective new roommates—and admittedly, as excited as she is to move in officially with Santana, she feels a small pang of nostalgia as she looks at the girls who sit across the table from them, girls like her when she first moved in, looking to find their dream, looking for a “family,” of sorts, while they realize it—she begins packing her things, and she goes on two auditions, neither of which, she gets, but she’s comforted by her girlfriend in what’s soon to be _their_ bed both times, and she’s reassured that she _will,_ when the right one comes along.

The night before she’s finally set to move, Brittany rides her bike up to her new home, and at Santana’s insistence, she parks it in the small alley between her house and the one next door, covering it carefully to protect it from any falling snow. They spend that last night apart, Santana working on a big project from the home office, and Brittany having a few final things to get together for the move. Artie and Mike offer to help her with her dozen or so boxes, and Tina, being Tina, tags along in the van that they’d borrowed from Robbie to get everything uptown. It’s strange how final it feels for Brittany, watching Kitty, the new girl, set her boxes down on the floor beside what used to be Brittany’s bunk, it’s strange to know that she’ll be the one caught up in Tina and Lauren’s crafting, or helping to move a passed out Mike to his bedroom, or filling her place at the breakfast table on the rare Saturday when all of them are home. It’s final, and it’s nostalgic, but the idea of the beautiful girl waiting uptown for her, the girl she loves, and who loves her in return, is the soothing balm to the sting of an era ending for her. Her dreams may still be in progress, but she’s found love in this great big city, and maybe that’s the most important thing of all.

Once all of her things are loaded on to the van, and she sits in the back with Artie, who’s locked his wheels, and holds onto a strap for extra precaution, they head uptown. It’s the first time any of her friends have been to Santana's—no, to _their—_ house, and admittedly, she’s a little nervous about her gaggle of friends in a place that’s so clean and white. They’re not _dirty,_ by any means, despite the fact that they leave their dishes in the sink a day too long, or sometimes use magazines as pizza plates, but Santana, her meticulous Santana, is maybe just a little anal retentive, and she doesn’t want their first day living together to be a complete shock to the system for her.

“What'sa matter, Britt?” Artie asks, noticing her furrowed brow. “Having second thoughts about leaving us to become an uptown girl?”    

“About the uptown girl thing _maybe.”_ She jokes, snapping out of her own head. “Not about moving in with Santana. That’s like, the best thing ever. Gonna miss me?”

“I _guess.”_ He teases her. “Who’s gonna do laundry with me, now that you’ve got a _housekeeper_ to do yours for you?”

“Correction, _Santana_ has a housekeeper. I kinda think it’s weird for someone else to wash my underwear.”

“You think it’s weird for someone to _wash_ your underwear, but you _wore_ Tina’s once?”

“Okay, you promised you’d never talk about that again. It was totally an emergency, I had my unlucky underwear on, and we were already in midtown for my audition!”

“Are you talking about the stupid underwear thing again?” Tina yells back from the front seat. “It was two years ago, and you weren’t the one dealing with a superstitious Brittany freakout, okay? You would’ve done the same thing!”

“Whatever, T, I’m just saying it’s not more weird for Britt to let someone wash her underwear than to swap with you.”

“Ugh, you’re so _lucky._ ” She groans. “I wish someone would wash _my_ underwear.”

“Can we just stop talking about who’s washing my underwear?”

“Okay, so then let’s talk about how you’re moving from a bunk bed in our crappy apartment to an actual mansion.”

“Let’s not and say we did.” Brittany clicks her tongue in irritation. “Can you guys just please not be total freaks about this when you’re there? There’s a _reason_ I prayed to like, every god I could think of that Lauren didn’t come.”

“Embarrassed about becoming lady of the manor?” Artie leans over to poke her arm and she lets out a deep sigh.

“Guys, quit it.” Mike reprimands from the driver’s seat, recalling his conversation with Brittany weeks ago. “Or I’ll pull this car over and Tina, you can push Artie home.”

“Okay, _dad.”_ Tina rolls her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Babe—”

“Don’t _babe_ me, _Arthur._ You, of all people, know that it’s a big deal to move in with someone, don’t bust her balls when she’s nervous.”

“I’m not _nervous.”_ Brittany lies. “Just everyone quit acting like I’m going to change because I’m moving up there, and like Santana’s money is mine or something, because it’s not. I work at a fricking Chinese restaurant, alright? Millie probably gets paid more that _I_ do. Can we just be _quiet_ for the rest of the way?”

Unwilling to suffer the wrath of a stressed out Brittany, they comply with her request, and she contemplates in silence for the duration of their trip. It feels like a growing up of sorts for her, this day, and the idea that at twenty-three years old, she’s found the person that she’s pretty sure she’ll spend the rest of her life with, someone who’s older and infinitely more put together than she’ll probably ever be. Brittany, in a van full of her old—and oftentimes directionless—roommates, is still feeling quite directionless herself, after the loss of her job, but now, she’s got this stability, this anchor, in the woman she loves, and it’s a strange feeling, good strange, but strange nonetheless.

When they finally arrive in front of Santana's—no, _their—_ house, Mike gets out and opens the back door for Brittany, and to help Artie down. Brittany is quick to jump out, and careful of the March slush on the sidewalk. Though she has a set of keys, ones Santana had given to her on a silver Tiffany key ring, and engraved with the letter _B,_ something Brittany had rolled her eyes playfully about, before kissing Santana silly, she knocks first, before sliding them into the lock. By the time she gets the door open, Santana is right behind it, smiling at Brittany in super casual jeans and a cashmere sweater, her dark curls tied up in a bandana.

“Hey, roomie.” Brown eyes crinkle in soft adoration, and Brittany can’t tear her eyes away from the utter _sex appeal_ that is Santana in those frame hugging jeans. The urge she feels to plant a kiss on soft lips is strong, but she can’t, not right here, not where the whole neighborhood can see, so instead, she just grins and waggles her eyebrows. “Do you have a lot of stuff?”

“I mean, not really.” She shrugs as Santana waves at her friends. “Just, like, a bunch of boxes, a lamp and a chair. The rest of the furniture came with the place, so Kitty totally already took over my digs.”

“Well.” Santana wrings her hands in front of her as casts her eyes down in the cute way she does. “I’ve cleared some new _digs_ for you. If they want to start bringing things in, I can show you.”

“Does it mean I can kiss you while you show me?”

“I’d be really offended if you didn’t.” She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, and Brittany cocks her head over her shoulder.

“Guys, I’ll be right back.” Brittany calls back, and narrows her eyes at Artie before he can wolf-whistle. “Just start piling stuff in the entryway, until I have a better idea where to put it.”

“ _We’re_ hauling your seven hundred boxes?” Tina groans. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you’re nosy and couldn’t wait until I invited you over like a civilized person.”

“No can do, that’d be a billion years, because you’re so sprung on—” Mike’s elbow under Tina’s ribs cuts off her sentence. “Ow!”

“We got this, Britt.”

“Thank you.” Santana nods in his direction, though her cheeks are warm. “I picked up some beer, it’s in the fridge, and pizza’s on me later.”

“Sweet! Pepperoni?” Artie grabs a box from Mike and taps the top of it for him to put another one there.

“Whatever you want.” Santana laughs, beaming a little at the adoring look on Brittany’s face. “Thanks for helping, all of you. We’ll be right back.”

Without another word, Santana leads Brittany back to the bedroom, and Brittany doesn’t hesitate to kick the door closed behind her and step close to Santana. Burying her hands in Santana’s back pockets, she pulls her close and kisses a waiting mouth, slipping her tongue inside and breathing in her girlfriend in the bedroom they now share.

“Hi.” She smiles when she pulls back, rubbing Santana’s nose. “These jeans, babe. Are you trying to get me to jump your bones in front of all my friends?”

“Britt.” Santana shakes her head laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you.” Brittany feels her bubbles of anxiety breaking up in Santana’s presence, in her—no, _their_ —bedroom. “Also, you know I’ve _seen_ my new digs, right?”

“Not all of them, c'mere.” With another quick peck to Brittany’s lips, Santana leads her over to the closet, revealing that the once over-filled walk-in has been half emptied out, and a dresser that matches the one Santana already had sits beside it, the clothes Brittany had once stashed in _her_ drawer sitting on top of it.

“Santana, you didn’t have to do this. I don’t even have that much stuff, I could have just stuck it in the guest room. I know you have way more than enough closets in this place.”

“I know you could have, but I didn’t _want_ you too. I put all my offseason stuff in the guest room closet. This is _our_ bedroom, not just mine, and I mean it, Britt, I want you to feel at home here, because it _is_ your home now, with me.”

“I love the sound of that.” She gives a contented smile. “But what about…are you sure, Santana?”

“I’m sure, Britt.” Santana smiles to herself, and Brittany does the same in response. “Wow, I’ve been really psyched about it all week, and now you’re here with all of your stuff. And I know what you were checking on, and _God,_ it makes me love you even more. But Millie knows, at least I think she does. She must. I told her you were moving in. I didn’t tell her you were _crashing,_ or _staying here._ I told her you were moving in, mostly so she wouldn’t come across it by surprise, and she didn’t say much about it at all, except that she left us a casserole for dinner tonight, and some chocolate chip cookies, because she knows they’re your favorite. Like I told you last month, in these four walls, it’s you and me.”

“You.” Brittany leans in, pressing her lips to the shell of Santana’s ear. “Are making it _really_ hard for me not to throw you down on this bed and have my way with you right now.”

“Your friends are right in the next room, baby.” She wraps her leg around Brittany’s waist and bites down on her pouting bottom lip.

“That’s all that’s keeping me from it, but I’m going to be a space cadet all day thinking of how lucky you’re gonna get later.”

“Hmm, is that so? ‘Cuz I think I’m pretty lucky already.”

“Stop. Out.” Pointing to the door, Brittany walks toward it. “You’re to cute and I have no self-control.”

“So then I should wait until we’re alone to show you your surprise then?”

“If it’s going to make me tear off your jeans, then yes, you better.”

“Okay, horndog.” She presses her tongue between her teeth and giggles. “Save the ripping off of the jeans for at _least_ this afternoon.”

Tapping Brittany’s ass as she opens the door, Santana follows her out of the bedroom, to where Mike is still carrying boxes, but Artie and Tina have abandoned their task in favor of nosing about the living room, scoping out where their friend will be living—or, more likely, assessing Santana’s wealth. Artie rolls back and forth on the carpet, having wiped his wheels, it seems, much to Brittany’s relief, not wanting him to muddy up the carpet and make Santana’s head explode.

“Look at this though, Artie.” Tina apparently neglects to notice that Brittany and Santana are back in the room. “She’s got a VCR. A _VCR._ This thing is the shiz nitz. I haven’t dated women in awhile, but for this chick, I’m down. Think I’ve got a shot?”

“T, just like you’re incapable of dating men who aren’t homos, you’re incapable of dating woman who aren’t psychos. Do I need to remind you of cheerleader chick who got a Davy Jones tattoo and tried to steal a baby? Now move over, lemme see. Brittany better hook her Atari to this TV, it’s like forty-two inches.”

“I’m telling you right now, Artie, my fingers are capable of things—”

“I don’t give a damn what your fingers are capable of. Woman, please, I’m busy here!”

“Making yourselves at home?” Santana announces their presence, and Tina jumps back in surprise.

“We were just…uh…admiring the digs.” She stutters, a real one, from her nerves.

“Mhmm.” Santana looks over to Brittany, who just shakes her head.

“FYI, Tina, you kinda sound like a dick when you’re making plans to steal my girlfriend.”

"Not to mention, sorry, you’re pretty and all, but you’re not my type, and _besides…”_ She trails off, always embarrassed when she talks about her feelings out loud, and particularly in front of people she doesn’t know, and who are talking about performing sex acts on her. In response, Brittany puts an arm around her waist and pulls her close, avoiding pressing the kiss she wants to her temple so she doesn’t embarrass her further.

“Just step off, Cohen-Chang, or I won’t ever invite you over to watch it. And I thought you were helping Mike.”

“Psht.” Mike huffs, dropping another box in the entryway. “One box each.”

“Useless.” Brittany rolls her eyes. “Sorry, I’m here now. I can do the rest.”

“Did you write on the boxes, ba—Brittany?”

“I didn’t.” She purses her lips. “Why?”

“So I can sort them into rooms.” Santana cocks her head to the side, not quite used to Brittany’s disarray.

“Oh…yeah. I didn’t really pack them like that. But you can open them if you feel like it.”

“I’m not going to go through your stuff…”

“Babe, I’ve got no secrets from you. You’re gonna see it all anyway, and you know I don’t care where it ends up. Just, like, you know, tell me and stuff so I don’t end up going commando because you’re at work and I can’t find my underwear.”

“I think I can manage that.” Santana shakes off the image of Brittany sans underwear, and lifts the package opener from her office that she’d laid on the entryway table, eager to get to work, eager to create some semblance of order in the cluttered hallway that _definitely_ overwhelms her.

When Brittany goes outside, deftly slipping her sneakers on and off each time she reappears in the entryway—something she’d never imagined would become second nature to her, but she knows it makes Santana anxious—Artie and Tina remove themselves from the living room and begin helping again. Although Brittany hadn’t thought she’d had much, now that it’s all stacked up inside her new home, she furrows her brow wondering when she’d even accumulated so much stuff, and how she’d managed to shove it all beneath beds and on top shelves of closets in her old apartment. By the time it’s all moved inside, Brittany has no idea where Santana has gone off to, and looking at her friends slumped on the couch, she calls out her name and hears a response from the kitchen. As she walks through the doorway, she finds Santana with a box carefully slit open and holding Brittany’s Tony the Tiger cereal bowl in one hand, and her Snap, Crackle, Pop in the other.

“Oh good! You found my kitchen stuff!” Brittany chirps excitedly. “Is the Strawberry Shortcake one in there too?”

“I’m not sure…there’s…uh…a mix of stuff in here and…” Santana stammers, cheeks shining with embarrassment as she looks down at the partially closed box. “There’s a… _magic wand.”_

“A magic wand?” Brittany raises an eyebrow, the bursts out laughing the instant she realizes what it is Santana is talking about. “Babe, are you that embarrassed about finding my vibrator? You know you’ve had your _tongue_ ins—”

“Brittany! Keep your voice down!” Santana hisses, then starts blinking incredibly rapidly. “I just didn’t expect to find that in here. I didn’t even know you _had_ one.”

“Of course I do. Lauren worked at The Pink Pussycat for awhile a few years ago, and Hitachi totally rocked my world.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Santana bites down hard on her lower lip, the idea of Brittany just walking into a store called _The Pink Pussycat_ actually _less_ disturbing than the self-doubt that begins to creep in that she might not be satisfying Brittany enough. “So do you…?”

“I mean, duh, that’s kind of the point, Santana.” Brittany rolls her eyes a little.

“Oh, okay…”

“Hey, weirdo.” Brittany puts her hand under Santana’s chin and tilts it up so she’s looking in her eyes. “Who do you think I’m thinking of? _Nothing_ gets me going like picturing you propped up on your elbows between my legs, looking at me with those smoldery eyes you get, and licking your lips. I start thinking of that sometimes, and you’re at work, or whatever, and it gets me off way better than my own fingers. Why, do you _not_ ever—”

“Your friends are _right_ in the living room, oh my God.”

“You know they’re totally occupied watching _General Hospital._ I’m just trying to make you feel better about something that’s got you all freaked out.”

“Well it’s not really working.”

“Santana Lopez, are you freaking for serious right now? That bite mark I know you still have on your shoulder should tell you that you are the best lover I’ve ever had, and me owning a vibrator’s got nothing to do with it. I would’ve gotten rid of it when I was packing, if I would’ve thought it would make you feel bad. But—” Brittany leans in, breathing into Santana’s ear. “I thought it would be _really_ hot if we played with it together.”

“I…” A chill runs down Santana’s spine at the husk in Brittany’s voice, and the visuals that accompany it.

“I was thinking you’d let me spread your legs and press it against you. Over your panties first, until you’re writhing, and begging me for more. Then I’d pull them down and part you with my fingers, bringing them to my lips to taste how much you want me. I’d kiss you, so you could taste yourself too, before I’d press the vibrator back against you, and feel the way the pulsations ripple through your whole body. And then, just before you come, I'd—”

“Fuck, Brittany, can you _not_ right now?” Santana presses her thighs together and reaches for her water glass on the table.

“I’d throw it to the side and I’d finish you with my mouth.” Brittany races out in one breath, then grins innocently at Santana. “But, you know, I’ll totally toss it if you—”

“No.” She yelps. “Just…go hide it somewhere in our room. Just…make sure your friends don’t see it on your way, and you put it somewhere that Millie won’t accidentally come across it and discover the filthy, filthy things I fantasize about you doing to me.”

“Okay.” Brittany arches an eyebrow and gives Santana a quick kiss on the lips. “But I’ll let you know where it’s stashed…in case you need to _fantasize_ while I’m at work.”

“And…if I wanted to use it on you?”

“Do I even have to answer that, babe?” She winks over her shoulder. “It would be my _pleasure.”_

By the time Brittany comes back from stashing the vibrator in the top drawer of the nightstand, removing the key and hiding it under the lamp, Santana has found Brittany’s Ronald McDonald and company glasses, and her Garfield mugs, and has them washed and lined up in the dish rack. Eight boxes are open on the floor, and remaining inside of them are Brittany’s clothes, now neatly folded and possibly arranged according to season. Smiling adoringly at her girlfriend’s furrowed brow as she attempts to make room in the kitchen cabinet, Brittany knows just how much Santana loves her, how this woman making _room_ for all of her kooky things is so much more special than it would be with anyone else, because she craves order and routine so fundamentally.

“Alright, task number one taken care of. The key to the nightstand on my side of the bed is under your lamp.”

“Good to know.” Santana swallows hard, having been unable to shake the words Brittany husked in her ear, even as she’d busied herself. “So your friends are…”

“Being lazy sacks of crap and drinking beer in the living room. We can totally kick them out.”

“I promised them pizza, Britt.”

“You promised them pizza in exchange for _helping._ Pretty much only Mike earned it. Artie and Tina get negative pizza.”

“Stop.” Santana throws a paper towel in Brittany’s direction. “They might be snoopy, and kind of a _lot,_ but I don’t want them to feel like you’re moving in with someone who can’t let their hair down.”

“Babe.” Brittany cocks an eyebrow, attempting to hold back her laugh.

“Hey! I let my hair down…sometimes.”

"Mostly when you’re naked.” She counters, then leans over and strokes Santana’s thumb with her cheek. “Your passion and intensity is something I love about you a _lot._ I’m not asking you to change for my friends who put their feet up on coffee tables.”

“What?” Santana’s eyes widen a little, and Brittany giggles. “Britt! Not funny. You _know_ feet on tables grosses me out. Ugh, and now I sound like my mother, the _last_ human being on the planet that I want to sound like. I’d rather sound like Walter Mondale.”

“Hey, I _like_ Mondale.”

“I love you to death, but I _really_ disagree with your politics.”

“I’m aware. If you left me for a man, it would be Ronald Reagan.” Brittany feigns a gag, and Santana scrunches up her nose.

“I love his economic policy, _not_ his body. Maybe _Nancy.”_ She teases, and Brittany swats at her. “Kidding. I’ll take my hippie liberal girlfriend any day.”

“Damn straight. Now, I’m ordering the pizza and then telling them the van is being towed so they leave. You’ve got something to show me, and I’ve got _things_ to show you.”

Brittany calls and orders four pies, assuring Santana that there’s no way they’ll go to waste, and though she’s backed significantly off carbs in hopes of actually landing some kind of role, she encourages Santana to open a beer, and to sit down and relax. She does just that—the beer and the sitting part, not really the relaxing part—and though Brittany knows she still feels really on edge, despite her assertions otherwise, and way older than her friends, Santana does her best to fit in among the rag tag group of artists and performers. When the pizza finally arrives, Santana jumps to her feet, setting out plates on the table, and feeling _extremely_ anxious when Mike and Tina decline to sit, instead folding their slices and standing around. She’s trying, she’s trying so hard, even when Artie accidentally flings his slice while telling a story, and it reaches the edge of the living room, smearing sauce and grease into white plush carpet. Brittany loves her all the more for the way she wants to welcome her friends, and as Santana gets down on her knees with Resolve, trying to nonchalantly remove the stain before it sets, Brittany crouches beside her, mumbling a soft apology, and an even softer _I love you a lot_. When they finally leave, Santana has switched to white wine, and she sinks down into the couch cushions, trying not to guzzle it as she sort of shifts her eyes over the room, the chair that’s yet to find a place, and the still full boxes.

“Hi.” Brittany sinks down next to her, one hand stroking her hair, and the other scratching the fabric of her jeans. “Please don’t be stressed. I think you got all the sauce out, and Millie got that osso bucco stain out of your dress that time, so if you didn’t…”

“I’m not stressed about the carpet.” Brittany cocks her head to the side in disbelief when Santana speaks, and she shakes her head. “Promise. I just get a little overwhelmed with people I don’t really know _knowing_ about me, and being in my private space. I know they’re your friends, and it’s _fine,_ and I’ll get better about it, just give me some time to get used to their…openness?”

“You don’t have to put it in your question tone, of course I’ll give you time. Look, babe, I can’t even begin to imagine what you deal with being so tightly wound and having to hide things all the time.” Carefully, Brittany plucks the wine glass from Santana’s hand, always concerned about her stomach trouble flaring up, and replaces the rim on her lips with a slow, sweet kiss. “The people I’m around are just overly open, and I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I’m so used to vagina jokes that I don’t even hear them anymore.”

“The thing is, Britt, I’m not sure I’ll _ever_ get used to _that_. I mean, the other stuff, like Mike and Artie making fart jokes or whatever, yeah, but not the sex stuff. Fifteen years ago, I made such a big deal of talking about sex in front of everyone. I started a rumor that I got on my knees for the whole football team.” Santana averts her gaze from Brittany, whose eyes widen. “I didn’t. I just wanted everyone to think that, because it was less of a sin in my Catholic school than if I knew I was peeking over my books at the captain of the drill team who rolled up her skirt everyday.”

“Santana.”

“The point is, Britt—” Santana just shakes her head. “It’s different now, and I like your friends, I _do,_ I’m just never going to laugh at Tina joking about having sex with me, or Artie telling that weird Virginia vagina joke. I don’t want them to think I’m a dud, but it’s just…its just me, and I’m sorry.”

“Santana Lopez.” Brittany cups her cheeks and kisses her again, letting it linger. “You don’t have to be sorry. Look, I was super freaked out on my way up here about…I don’t know, like, growing up or whatever, but the second I saw you standing in the doorway, I knew that I didn’t have a reason to feel like that. I mean, I’m not saying I’m gonna quit playing Donkey Kong, because I’m totally not, and I’m gonna teach you to play one day, or I’m not gonna eat breakfast out of my mascot bowls, but I love having a grown up relationship with you. I _love_ that you put on your sexy suits and go to your important job, and then we go on dates where you order fancy wine in French. I love that you hang art on the walls and not _Blade Runner_ posters. And I love that what we do in the bedroom—or, like, wherever we do it—is something that’s really special and private. I wouldn’t be dating an older woman, if I didn’t think your maturity was sexy.”

“I’m not _that_ much older that you.”

“You’re right, it’s _only_ seven years. But really, you’re not a dud, and I love that being with you is being _with_ a grownup, and makes _me_ one too, even semi-unemployed, in my Van Halen t-shirt, and jonesing for spring to come so I can get back on my bike. I love our relationship, and I love _you.”_

“Even when I’m anal and uptight?”

“You’re not, usually, with me, but I love everything about you, so yeah.”

“So can I be a control freak right now and say we need to finish your boxes before my head explodes?”

“I think that’s fair.” Brittany chuckles, offering Santana, who stumbles, a hand up. “You gonna be okay, drunky?”

“Shut up, I’m fine.” She smacks Brittany’s arm, but then loops her own through, and leans against her. “You live with me now.”

“I do live with you now.” Pressing her lips to Santana’s temple, she pulls her closer, absolutely adoring cuddly drunk Santana, and glad she’d stopped with the wine before she became weepy drunk Santana. “And didn’t you say you had a surprise to show you.”

“Nuh-uh, not until we’re done with the boxes. I’m saving all the work I have to do this weekend until you go in to the restaurant tomorrow, and I don’t want us to leave it until morning.”

“I wouldn’t do that, I know you, you’d end up getting up in the middle of the night and unpacking.”

“I mean…maybe.” Santana rolls her eyes and cuddles further into Brittany’s side. “Let’s just do it now, I promise, your surprise is worth waiting for.”

They work quickly, sorting through piles of dance shoes, old costumes, and pictures of Brittany’s family, laughing and making goofy faces, in stark contrasts of the one of Santana’s family that sits on the mantle, her imposing father and disdainful mother, with Santana attempting not to look like she’d rather be dead than posing with them in front of their mansion. It’s Santana who puts one of Brittany’s family on the opposite side of her own though, it’s Santana who hopes that someday, she’ll have _Brittany’s_ family embrace her for who she is, even though she knows the Lopezes never will. Brittany notices her quiet wistfulness and pulls her closer, not speaking about it, because she knows Santana _won’t,_ but just offering silent support, an unspoken promise that she’s always there, that she’ll always love her.

When they’re finished and Brittany brings the broken down boxes out to the trash, Santana leads her up narrow stairs in the back of the house. With the exception of Santana’s office, the upstairs is rarely used. There’d never been a need for it, not with Santana living there alone. One of the two bedrooms up there has sat vacant since Santana bought the place, housing only odds and ends that she couldn’t find a place for, and the other a bed and a dresser, a place for Millie to keep anything she chooses, in case the weather is bad, or she and Marley stay to watch the house while Santana goes out of town. Brittany looks at Santana quizzically as they walk up the stairs, but Santana just shrugs, knowing if she speaks, she’ll give away the surprise that she hopes her girlfriend isn’t too upset that she put together.

With Brittany at her heels, Santana cracks open the door to the unused room, and she peeks in, turning on the lights and making sure—though she had done it twice since the contractor she’d hired had finished it up on Wednesday—that all was well. Satisfied with it, she opens the door fully, revealing the empty space, housing only waxed wooden floors and white walls covered in mirrors and bars with a new stereo in the corner. At the sight, Brittany sucks in a breath, hands flying to cover her mouth.

“Santana Lopez. You didn’t.”

“I…I couldn’t help myself.” She sucks on her bottom lip and watches Brittany’s shining eyes.

“You—” She spins Santana around to kiss her between words. “Are. Absolutely. Awful. And. I. Love. You. A. Lot.”

“I know you were working out at the rec center by your old place, and it’s really far for you to go down there every day. I just figured…I have my office, and I wanted you to have a space of your own too. Somewhere you can practice your routines and land a role that’s worthy of you, or, you know, just hang out if I make you crazy and you need time to yourself.”

“You’re too much.” Brittany fans her face, trying to keep herself from crying at just how lucky she is to have someone who believes in her as much as Santana does. “This is too much.”

“I figured I got _you_ as a gift today, so I should get you something too. Something that doesn’t just feel like you’re fitting yourself into _my_ life.”

“Okay, so remember how earlier, I said you where getting _so_ lucky tonight?” She lifts Santana, who yelps a little, so her legs wrap around her waist, and she tests the strength of the ballet bar before she rests Santana’s ass on it. “That times a million. Right here. Right now, roomie.”

“I love you so much.” Santana can’t help but giggle into Brittany’s neck as she works the button on her jeans with skilled fingers.

“Yeah, you think, crazy face? Thank you. Thank you for this, for _everything.”_

“For you, Britt, the whole world.”


	11. Never Dreamed There’d Be Someone To Hold Me

The first few weeks of living together are an adjustment for Brittany and Santana, without a doubt. While Brittany struggles with keeping her things from spilling out all over the compulsively ordered home, Santana practices her breathing and reminders that it’s no longer just her space, so that she doesn’t let frustrations get the best of her when things weren’t exactly her way. They’re an odd couple, without a doubt, but they love each other so fiercely that they won’t risk their relationship by fighting over something as absurd as where Brittany left her socks, or where Santana moved Brittany’s work apron. Plus, waking up with each other every day, even after Brittany worked a late shift in the restaurant? That’s kind of the most amazing thing either of them has ever experienced.

As the city begins to thaw out, and Brittany works tirelessly perfecting her audition routines, Santana struggles with an issue she hadn’t told her girlfriend about; Easter Sunday, and the Holy Days that preceded it. Back in February, when Santana had gone to Ash Wednesday service after work with her parents, she’d showered away the black smudge on her forehead and the subsequent shame of living a secret life that her family and their strict church would see as the worst kind of sin before Brittany even came home to see it. But the Easter holiday is different, and for the first time in her life, Santana considers lying her way out of it. Of course, as the day draws closer, and Terri pages to tell Santana that her mother is on the line, it begins to seem like the universe has other plans.

“Hi, Mama.” Santana answers the phone, fingering the penny on the ring of keys that sits in the top drawer of her desk. “How are you?”

‘Estas bien. Escucharme, remember I told you about the kitchen renovation I decided to do? Not that you’ve seen it.’

“Si, Mama. Lo siente, work has been really busy.” She sighs.

'Always work. You’re going to look back in your forties when you’re still single, and regret that this is what you chose, rather than a husband and a family.’ Her mother snaps, but Santana doesn’t respond. She can’t respond. There’s nothing she can say. Mama, I found a girl who loves me and who I love? Mama, I’m one of the homos that you’re constantly talking about? No, it’s impossible. 'Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about that. I called to tell you that because of a underestimate of how long the job would take, the kitchen isn’t done, and your father and I will be having Easter dinner at your house.’

“Mama, I—”

'No excuses, Santanita. Cater it, if you have to, but the three of us will go to Saint Paul’s, and then we’ll break the Lenten fast there.’

“Okay.” Santana concedes, her affirmative laying like a ton of bricks on her chest. Her affirmative meaning that her parents will be in the home she shares with Brittany, and her skin crawls beneath her pantyhose and under her hair. “Okay I’ll take care of it.”

'Good, so I’ll see you then. I’m running out to have lunch with Renata Perez. Rumor has it, her son is single again,’

“Ignacio is twenty-one.”

'And already a successful hedge fund manager. He’d be a good provider, give you a beautiful home.’

“I don’t need a provider, and I already own a beautiful home.”

'And a barren womb. You’re not getting any younger, Nita.’ Santana sucks in a deep breath, holding back her temper at her mother, always respecting her elders, as her mother raised her—such a good daughter-in-law she’ll make, if she ever settles down, she hears in a chorus of English and Spanish in her mind. There’s no use arguing, there’s never any use arguing, because it’s one she’ll never win.

“I’ll see you Sunday, Mama.”

'Friday. For six o'clock Mass.’

For the remainder of her day, Santana is a bear. Terri gets most of her wrath, followed by Ben Israel, but only the new kid Hummel is quick enough to steer clear and bury his nose in his work. On some days, she hates him most, with his unintentionally flamboyant mannerisms and coordinated clothes that even the most dapper heterosexual male couldn’t put together, but she never says a word to him. She suspects there’s a reason behind his move from San Francisco to New York, beyond job prospects, and she gets how badly it sucks sometimes to be different than you’re supposed to be. Besides, he’s a good worker, definitely better than Ben Israel, or Schuester, who spends half his day flirting with Terri. So he deserves her wrath far less than anyone else, for more than one reason.

Brittany is working late, she always does on Mondays, because it’s a slow day, and Robbie can handle having her on the floor for the dinner rush without worrying about her getting overwhelmed and spilling things all over the place. Santana hates those days, usually, but today, she’s secretly glad for it. She needs some time alone. Time to soak in the bathtub, to light candles, to have a glass of wine, and to think about exactly how she’s going to handle having her parents at her house, the house she shares with Brittany, and how she’s even going to tell Brittany that this is a thing that’s happening.

“Hey sexalicious.” Brittany opens the front door and finds Santana on the couch, nursing her second glass of wine and watching the news, just after eleven.

“Hi.” Santana tilts her head up to accept Brittany’s kiss, barely registering the goofy nickname. She smells like Szechuan beef, and she’s got grease streaked down the front of her black button down, but her smile, it’s exactly what Santana needs. Her face that always understands, her face that always loves.

“Rough day at work?” She nods to the wine, and Santana half-shrugs as Brittany plays with the top button on her pajamas.

“Just…a day. I know you probably want to shower. I’m okay, we can talk when you get out.”

“Alright, cool. I’ll be quick.”

In response, Santana just nods. Her heart thuds hard against her rib cage, and she wishes, more than she’s ever wished for anything else, that she could be braver. She wishes that she could announce to the world who much she loved this beautiful, amazing woman, this woman who’s the only good thing in the miserable world. She wishes she could tell her parents to go screw themselves if they have a problem with it. She wishes that there would be no repercussions in her professional life if she were just embrace who she is. She wishes that even if there were, she could just walk away. But that’s not reality, that’s not her, and so she throws gas onto the fire that bubbles up the steaming pot of crap that stews away inside of her, and she just hopes for the best, she just hopes, beyond all other hope, that a day will never come where Brittany gets sick of dealing with it.

When Brittany comes back out of the shower, she comes back into the living room in just a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt—one she’d picked up for eighty five cents at a thrift shop because she knows Santana loves them—and her panties, carrying her own glass of wine. She swirls the crimson liquid before taking a sip, closing her eyes as the bite hits her. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and Santana just watches for a moment, her stomach twisting, twisting.

“You could have opened the white if you wanted. You hate red wine.”

“I don’t hate it.” Brittany sips again, as if to prove her point, before curling into Santana’s side. “I just prefer white. This is fine. As far as red goes, cab is the best option.”

“And you’d rather I don’t down the whole bottle and start puking blood.”

“Well I would always prefer that.” Her eyebrows furrow in concern. “What’s going on, babe. You look like you want to murder someone…or already did. Do you need help hiding a body? Because I don’t condone violence, but it’s you, so I could make an exception.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I do know, but I definitely never get tired of hearing it.”

“My parents are coming here for Easter.” She just blurts it out. May as well rip the bandaid off, may as well just accept what’s happening, since there’s no stopping her mother once she has her mind set on something.

“Oh.” Brittany takes in a large swallow from her glass, and Santana can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes her throat. “Okay. I can go hang at my old place for the day. Or, like, invite myself to Artie’s parents house.”

“No.” It’s a whisper when Santana says it, but Brittany’s head jerks up and watches her slowly shake her head. “No. I don’t want you to.”

“Santana.”

“This is your house too.”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“I…” The way Santana chews her bottom lip still hasn’t ceased to make Brittany less nervous. She doesn’t just bite it, it’s such a nervous thing that it really seems entirely possible that she might take a chunk out of it one day, and she’s seen the sores Santana gives herself in doing it. “I’m allowed to have friends, and if I want to have you here for Easter dinner, I can.”

“Babe.” Brittany takes another long pull of her wine, wrinkling her nose at the glass when she sees that it’s already nearly empty.

“I hate that I have to pretend. That we do. I hate it more than anything in the world. I hate that I have to keep who you are to me a secret, with them, at work…and I’m so sorry for that. You don’t have to stay, I don’t blame you if you’d rather go be around people who aren’t awful, but…I’d really like if you were here.”

“Then this is where I’ll be.” She presses a soft kiss to Santana’s lips, thumbing the creases around her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the rest of the week, Santana is a wreck. Try as she might, Brittany can’t calm her down, even with the most powerful weapons in her arsenal. Even after sex, where she’d usually fall asleep, completely blissed out, on Brittany’s chest, Santana curls up on her side clutching her stomach. For the first time, Brittany is just clueless as to what she can do to help her, and by Friday, as she sits on the couch watching General Hospital, she’s willing to try anything to make her girlfriend feel better.

“Why the long face, honey?” Millie waits until the commercial break to look up from where she stands at the ironing board, starching napkins, and Brittany’s head snaps up.

“Nah, nothing, it’s cool, I’m just thinking.”

“Alright, well, if it’s anything I can help you with, I’m right here.”

Brittany doesn’t say anything, she’s not sure that she should. She continues watching the show, rolling her eyes at how unrealistic everything is—she much prefers the realism of primetime television, thank you very much—and when it’s over, she watches Millie go into the dining room to start setting the table for Sunday’s dinner. Try as she might, Brittany’s still not comfortable sitting around the house while Millie works, and so she meanders into the other room, lifting up and inspecting pieces of Santana’s fancy formal silver wear.

“I don’t get it either.” Millie says softly, lying four china dishes down on the long rectangular table. “My Marley and I have always used the same old stuff, even when we have company. No one seems to mind what they’re eating off of, so long as the food’s good.”

“Same with my family. This is just a whole different world I’m learning over here.”

“I don’t think Santana cares much for any of this either, she just goes along with it all, since it’s what she was raised to do.”

“Have you met her parents before?” Brittany chances to ask, pretending to be more interested in the crystal goblets than Millie’s answer.

“Yeah. I’ve worked for Santana for nine years, but they’ve only been in while I was working a handful of times.”

“Are they…?” She’s not sure what word she’s searching for. Terrible? Awful? Mean?

“They’re…they’re not very kind to Santana.” Millie pulls her lips into her mouth, looking cautiously at Brittany. “It’s not my place to say though.”

“You can say it to me. I’ve never met them, and they’re already kinda low on my list.”

“She’s just not what they hoped for her to be, I guess. Especially Mrs. Lopez.”

“And they don’t even know that she's—” Brittany’s eyes widen at her almost-slip and she stops. No matter what Millie chooses to assume, Brittany won’t confirm that verbally. “That she really awesome.”

“She is really awesome. I was a little afraid of her when I started working for her, she comes off hard and angry, but as her employee, I can personally attest to her generosity. Toward me, toward my daughter, toward Unique.”

“I mean, as her friend, I can agree with that.” Her tongue always feels strange with that word friend, but it’s the best she can do without feeling like she’s speaking out of turn.

“Mmhm.” Millie sets the folded napkins down a top each plate and casts her eyes away from Brittany. “You make her really happy, you know.”

“I hope so.” She shrugs one shoulder. “She deserves that.”

“She deserves a lot of things. Things other people don’t think she should have. I know I work for her, but sometimes I think of her like I think of my own daughter. I’m glad to see her letting herself have some of them. And Brittany?”

“Yeah?” Brittany feels her heart thud hard against her rib cage, afraid Millie is going to ask her a question that she won’t know how to answer. They share a bed, Millie has to know that, no matter how many times she changes the sheets in the second bedroom, and Santana said that she’d never let someone work in her home that she didn’t trust, but still, she wouldn’t feel right, not with Santana so constantly in knots.

“Bite your tongue.”

“What?”

“With Mrs. Lopez. Trust me, it feels impossible, but if you don’t, you’ll only make it harder for Santana. Bite your tongue, and just let her work out her frustrations later.”

“Okay.” Brittany nods, but bites her lip, turning a knife over in her hand. “If it’s what’s better for her.”

“It is. I promise you, it is.”

It’s late when Santana makes it back from Long Island. She’d left early for work, since the bank closed at three o'clock, and Santana is incapable of working a short day, and then having to take a car to Port Washington and back, coupled with Good Friday service and fish dinner with her parents has her beyond exhausted and tense. Brittany worries about her stomach as she silently sips her glass of wine, but she doesn’t say anything, she just ties her raven hair up and unzips the back of her black dress, pressing a kiss to each shoulder and massaging out as much of the tension out as she can. She doesn’t ask how it was, because she knows, and making Santana talk about it won’t help at all. So she just touches her softly, she loves her more, she reminds her that no matter what her mother says, no matter what any priest in purple robes preaches, she’s beautiful and she’s special and she’s loved.

On Easter morning, Santana wakes up early. She can’t help but smile at the Cadbury Creme Egg that Brittany left beside the coffee pot, and while her girlfriend sleeps in after her late shift last night, Santana takes a bite of the egg and sips her coffee slowly, prolonging the inevitable. When Santana gets out of the shower, and she slips into a loose, flowery dress—so very un-Santana—Brittany is just waking up. She stretches her arms over her head and she hums to herself, before noticing Santana at the vanity in hot rollers. Her reflection smiles back at Brittany as she sits up, and Brittany just mouths I love you, with a small, reassuring nod.

Once Santana leaves—after making the bed herself and checking over Millie’s set table and the wine situation at least a dozen times—Brittany begins to stress out about what she should wear. Clearly, her wardrobe isn’t exactly appropriate for some kind of solemn dinner, and she looks at her tight neon orange dress and her Lycra legging collection with disdain. She wonders what Santana’s mother would say if she knocked on the door—because of course she’ll knock on the door, as much as it pains both her and Santana—with a six pack of Budweiser in a Twisted Sister t-shirt? Probably not good things.

Eventually, short of going through Santana’s clothes and looking ill-fitted, Brittany decides the best thing to wear is the outfit that she’d worn to her uncle’s funeral last year. So maybe a navy blue dress doesn’t exactly scream Easter, but once she slicks her hair back into a bun and keeps her makeup soft, she figures that maybe she looks conservative enough for dinner with the Lopezes. Vacating the house, she goes to pick up the tres leches cake that Santana ordered from some bakery in Spanish Harlem, and when she comes back down to their neighborhood, knowing full well that church will be over, and Santana will be at the house, she takes a deep, centering breath, before pressing her thumb to the doorbell.

“Hi.” Santana opens the door, soft, and a little breathless.

“Hey. Happy Easter.” Brittany’s eyes flit behind her, seeing the stern-looking older couple on the sofa, glasses in hand. “I brought tres leches cake, I hope that’s alright.”

“Thank you. They’re my father’s favorite, so he’ll appreciate that. Here, come on in, let me take your coat.”

The exchange between them is awkward, and Brittany can feel Santana’s conscious effort not to let her fingers graze her biceps as she slides her windbreaker—definitely in sharp contrast to the rest of her outfit—off and slips it on a hanger to put in the closet. She’s being greeted with formalities in her own home, and though it hurts, Brittany knows by the sad smile on her girlfriend’s face that her own pain doesn’t even compare.

“Mama, Papa, this is Brittany.” Santana introduces her, holding up the bread. “She brought tres leches.”

“So nice you could join us.” Dr. Lopez stands to shake her hand, setting his brandy down on the coffee table. “It’s typically just the three of us for this.”

“I…uh…” The normally confident Brittany feels her palms begin to sweat, and though Mrs. Lopez hasn’t said a single word, she fears her most. “I’m sorry I’m cutting in. I just mentioned to Santana that I didn’t have any plans…”

“How nice of her to invite you.” Mrs. Lopez’s voice drips with the strange fake sweetness, like probably worse than Tab. “Sit down then, you’re making me nervous just standing around there.”

Sitting in one if the high back white wing chairs across from the couch, Brittany fidgets. Growing up with her hippie parents, she’s really never done these formal things, she’s never addressed people as Mr. and Mrs.—or in the case of the Lopezes, Dr. and Mrs.—but she has to try to conform to their norms, for Santana’s sake.

“Brittany, wine?” Santana asks, perching on the edge of the couch beside her father.

“White, please, if you have it.”

“Of course, I’ll be right back.” She nods, leaving the room, and leaving Brittany under the gaze of Mrs. Lopez’s terrifying eyes.

“So, Brittany, we’ve never met you before. I guess you’re one of Santana’s new friends then? From the bank?”

“Oh, no. I’m actually a dancer.” Brittany picks at her cuticles and bites her lip, every nervous tic she has manifesting. “I was just recently in A Star Is Born: The Rachel Berry Story, where she also played…Rachel Berry.”

“We didn’t see that one, did we, Lucia?”

“No, we didn’t. We saw Rachel Berry in Cabaret, and she is insufferable. Also her father is a communist.”

“I didn’t know about the communist thing, but I agree that she’s insufferable.” Brittany forces out a laugh, and accepts the glass of wine from Santana’s hand when she returns, letting only her pinky graze her wrist.

“This wine is terrible, Santana, really.” Mrs. Lopez rolls her eyes, and Santana casts her eyes down.

“I can open another bottle, Mama, if you want. Or you can try the white.”

“Here, you can taste mine if you want.” Brittany holds out her glass, and is met with a look of disgust.

“I don’t taste from other people’s glasses. Who knows if a homosexual spit on you on the subway and spread GRID to you?”

“Lucia, it’s AIDS.” Dr. Lopez sighs a little, checking his watch.

“Either way, it’s the homosexuals who spread it, Renaldo, with their filthy ways.”

“Mama, please.” Brittany can see the lump in Santana’s throat, she can see her hackles rise, she can feel, even without touching her, the knots that form in her stomach and her back. “Can we just not talk about terrible diseases? Or communists? Or homosexuals?”

“Your father’s life is on the line constantly, because there’s not enough fear of God in these people, so excuse me for talking about it. It would do you well to care more. Maybe if it was your husband at risk. Speaking of—” She waves herself off, and into the only topic that seems to interest her more. “Have you given more thought to calling Ignacio?”

“I wasn’t giving thought to it at all. I changed his diapers.”

“Always an excuse.” Mrs. Lopez huffs. “It’s like you don’t even want a husband.”

“I’m doing just fine here, Mama, I’ve told you that. Can we please just have one meal where we don’t argue about this?”

“I’m looking out for your well being, because you’re my daughter, Santana. I just want you taken care of when we go.”

“I’m plenty taken care of.” Santana scoffs, and Brittany watches her press a hand to the side of her stomach as she lifts her wine glass from the table. “Can we talk about something else, please? Papa, how’s the run for Chief of Surgery going?”

“Excellent.” He nods, swirling his brandy. “I should know by Labor Day. Expect an invitation to one hell of a party if it’s mine. Your abuelita has been waiting for this day since I was born.”

“Well I’m glad—” Santana shoots Brittany a quick glance, then returns her attention to her father. “That you’ll have fulfilled all her hopes and dreams for you.”

It’s a special kind of hell, Brittany thinks, the dinner with Santana’s parents. It’s entirely possible that Mrs. Lopez is even more awful than she imagined, constantly picking at Santana. Be it the wine, the dining chairs, the catered ham being underdone. It just breaks her heart into a million tiny shards, watching her girlfriend struggle to do right, when it seems like there’s no right to be done at all. All Brittany wants to do is grab Santana’s hand beneath the table. All she wants to do is kiss her lips and hold her close and tell her that she’s good enough. But instead, she’s fumbling with the fancy silverware, and she’s forcing a smile as she shakes her head and tells her girlfriend’s mother that no, she doesn’t have a boyfriend right now.

Santana looks positively defeated when they finally leave. Her father, he’s not a bad guy, Brittany doesn’t think, but God, is her mother something else. She has some of insufferable qualities of the Upper East Side WASPs that Brittany has encountered in the time she’s spent up here, but she’s not quite like them, it’s not quite the money she has—and that Brittany knows Santana has come from—that makes her the way she is. There’s something more terrifying. Maybe it’s the way she invokes God and her priest to justify her treatment of people, Brittany isn’t sure, but it’s certainly shed a lot of light on the Santana she knows, it explains, to a great degree, why Santana works so hard, why she needs everything just so, why she falls into these strange pits of self-disgust. She wishes so hard that she could tell Lucia Lopez to leave Santana be, that she’s amazing and beautiful. She wishes she could tell her that all the homosexuals she knows are better people than her, and that she ought to educate herself before she speaks about things she clearly knows nothing about. But she remembers what Millie told her. She remembers that it will do nothing but make things harder for Santana. She’s fiercely loyal, that incredible woman, and though it hurts her do deeply, Brittany knows she’ll always have her mother in her life, and she would never do anything to make it more of a stomach twisting struggle than it already is.

“Well, that was successful.” Santana’s voice is laced with bitterness as she dumps the remainder of her mother’s wine down the drain, watching the deep red swirl until it disappears. “She only said she was going to get AIDS from you once.”

“She seems like she’s pretty paranoid about it…” Brittany stacks the dessert plates, careful not to break the fine china.

“If it was a polio outbreak, she’d be the first one in line kissing sick orphans or something. It wouldn’t be their comeuppance for sinning. She knows nothing about it, she doesn’t even listen when my father tries to explain it, and yet…”

"Babe.” She sets the dishes on the counter beside the sink, and wraps her arms around Santana’s waist from behind, feeling the heaviness of her while being. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Britt, I’m sorry. You should have gone to Artie’s, you shouldn’t have been subjected to my bitch of a mother, and my father just sipping his brandy. Lucia, dear.”

“It’s part of the package that comes with you, Santana Lopez. And I want all of you, not just the good parts.”

“She just sat there asking you if you have a boyfriend, and it made me boil with rage. Not that I’m jealous of you being with someone else, because I know you love me, but she’s so fucking obsessed with women being in relationships, and here I am, giant neon dyke sign over my head, my girlfriend sitting next to me at the table, and I’m just like yeah, gals being pals. I want to scream from the rooftops how much I love you sometimes, but instead, I’m cowering in my closet like some kind of asshole.”

“Stop. Santana, just stop.” Bile rises up in Brittany’s throat, and her hands ball into fists. She takes a breath and backs away from Santana, waiting until she turns around to look at her. “You can’t do this every time you see your parents, or go to a work function, or go to the park. You can’t beat yourself up every time and convince yourself that you’re not an asshole for having a hundred billion reasons for keeping your relationship and your sexuality private. I’m not asking you to come out. I’m not asking you to scream it from the rooftops. I’m not asking you to be in a position that’s unsafe, so please, stop telling yourself that you’re in the wrong here.”

“I just wish…”

“What?” Brittany watches Santana wring her hands in front of her, still damp from washing dishes, and she sighs.

“I don’t even know anymore, Brittany. Honestly, I used to wish every single day that I wasn’t a lesbian. I’d wake up in the morning and wish that I’d want to call whatever son of my mother’s friend she wanted me to call that week, or that I’d feel some kind of tingling when some client winked at me on a business lunch. I’d wish that the thought of their hands all over my body didn’t make me want to barf. I’d wish I could be normal, even when I’d wait for Friday night to come, so I could hook up with some nameless, faceless girl to loosen up all the tension that built up in my body all week.” The lump in Santana’s throat bobs as she speaks, and Brittany can’t help but push away the tears in her own eyes with the heels of her hands. “But then you happened, and I can’t even wish that anymore because I love you more than I hate myself. So I don’t know what to wish for.”

“I wish.” Brittany steps forward, holding one side of Santana’s face in her hand. “That people weren’t assholes. I wish that you could embrace how awesome you truly are, and that it wouldn’t cost you your job and your family. I wish, more than anything that you could love you the way that I love you.”

Neither of them say anything for a long while. They just stand there like that in the kitchen, eyes locked. Seconds tick by, minutes, and Santana squeezes her eyes shut, just feeling Brittany’s hand on her face, before she opens her eyes, then her mouth to speak.

“Thank you.” She looks at Brittany, this disbelief in her big brown eyes. “I really hope that someday it’s just easier for us…”

“I know it’s hard, and it sucks so big that you’ve gotta deal with people who don’t get it, but babe, we’ve already got it so much easier than so many people.”

“God.” Santana leans in and kisses the corner of Brittany’s mouth, her fingers playing with the shoulder pad of her dark dress, so unlike her. “The luckiest thing I ever did was walk into that club that night.”

“On a date with another girl and everything.” Brittany winks, her wry smile curling on her lips. “She must be doing well, now that Madonna has released two more singles.”

“According to my cousin, the band broke up, and she joined the roller derby.”

“Aw man, if I wasn’t the one who got the girl, I’d be kind of jealous that she’s in the roller derby.”

“Just so you know, if you ever joined a roller derby, I’d be fearing for your safety, and I’d never sleep again. If I didn’t die of a heart attack the moment you told me.”

“Let’s see how this audition this week goes, who knows, I might be left with no choice.”

“I will fire Terri and make you my assistant to keep that from ever happening.”

“Nepotist!” Brittany teases, and is so glad to hear a real laugh from Santana. “The one and only time I’d ever sleep my way to the top. I got some, like, über skills, in case you didn’t know.”

“Hmmm, you might have to show me later, I think I forgot.”

“You’re terrible.” Brittany loosens the knot in Santana’s hair and tangles her fingers in her coarse curls.

“And you adore me.”

“You know it, babe.”

Wanting some time to herself to just decompress, Santana waves off any more of Brittany’s help with the dishes, sending her up to practice for her latest audition in the studio, and finishes them on her own. When they’re all safely dried and back in the china cabinet, she pulls the tablecloths and napkins for Millie to wash tomorrow, and goes into the bedroom, taking her time washing the makeup off of her face and changing into her pajamas. She knows her wish, but she won’t bring it up again, not when Brittany had tried so hard to make her smile. She doesn’t wish she could love a man, not at all. She wishes that she could love Brittany in a way that her mother would accept, in a way that didn’t make her want to crawl until the pew at Friday’s awful church service—because at least this morning’s was all about rebirth and miracles, not sins. She wishes that the her that exists in this house, face scrubbed clean and soft silk pajamas replacing harsh red lipstick and the sharp clack of heels on marble could exist the moment she crosses the threshold into the churning, rushing city, and what feels like a pretend life. She wishes a lot, but her biggest wish, she can already hear the thud of her feet on the floor above her. Her biggest wish, she already got.

After swallowing the pills for her stomach—because she knows she needs them more than ever with her dinner still soured in her stomach from her mother’s behavior—Santana uses the bathroom and pads up the narrow back stairs. In her office, there’s a stack of work she knows she can do, there’s a cigar in her desk that sort of makes her lip curl in anticipation of, but she also hears the music from across the hall. It’s something from A Chorus Line, and though Santana’s not familiar with it, she knows—for obvious reasons—that it’s Brittany’s favorite, and her record is so worn in that it’s a miracle it still plays. Pushing the cracked door open, Santana watches Brittany, too involved in the music—it wasn’t paradise, it’s wasn’t paradise, but it was home—to notice the intrusion. She loves to see the music course through her body, she loves to watch her head snap and her body bend, she loves the way her chest heaves and her toes curl. It’s more than just sexiness, it’s something so raw that Santana has to remember to breathe.

“Hey.” When the song ends, Brittany notices Santana and stands, hair whipping back against the form fitting lime Lycra top she’d changed into. Santana’s eyes are drawn to the sheen on sweat on Brittany’s cheeks, and Brittany’s lips form into a wry smile. “Are you having filthy thoughts about me while I’m working? Because I’ve never—oh my God, I can’t even lie, I have all the filthy thoughts about you when you’re working.”

“Who, you? I was totally clueless that you want to sweep all the stuff off the desk across the hall and bend me back over it.”

“I mean, I won’t. I’m sure your gazillion dollar accounts wouldn’t like it if I your ass prints were all over their paper work.”

“You, Brittany Pierce, are way too much.”

“And you love it.” Brittany pulls her hair to the side with the band on her wrist, and she steps closer to Santana, running her hands over the silk sleeves of her pajamas.

“I do. And I love you.”

“Are you going to bed?”

“Few minutes. The wine has gone to my head and my stomach, so I’m ready to call it a night.”

“Dance with me first?” She bends to move the needle on the record player, then gives an exaggerated bow and offers a hand to Santana. “Everything is beautiful at the ballet.”

“I like that song.”

“Duh, because it’s good, I mean, not as good as this one, but the whole show is amazing. The minute I get a real job, I’ll be taking you to see it. Or…you know, if third time’s a charm and I actually nail this audition for it, then you can see me in it. I can’t even believe my girlfriend is a Chorus Line virgin. Practically cause for ending the relationship.” Brittany feigns offense, while Santana steps into her arms and lays her head in the crook between her shoulder and neck.

“So that’s the most offensive thing about me? That I haven’t seen your favorite show?”

“I mean, I saw it nine years ago on the first tour, and I was fifteen and lived in Arizona, and I’ve seen it four times on Broadway. Like, didn’t eat so I could see it again. It’s pretty much the reason I’m even here right now.”

“And also a good reason to remind me that you were fifteen nine years ago, when I was working on my MBA.” Santana laughs, and lets Brittany dip her dramatically. “But I know it’s important to you, and if you would let me buy—”

“Nope, never gonna happen, this is my date idea, babe. Because you’re uncommonly rare, very unique, peripatetic and chic.” Brittany nails her timing and sings it right along with the record, making Santana blush and smile fondly at her. “She walks into a room and you know from her maddening poise, effortless whirl, she’s a special girl.”

“You’re the only person in the world who can sing me a show tune and make me swoon.”

“Um, duh, because I’m not a theater nerd, so it’s hot, and also, I’m like, very romantic.”

“Yeah, Britt, yeah you are.”


End file.
